THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


J 


i8p  jflorente  €arle  Coatee 


POEMS.     i2mo. 

MINE  AND  THINE.     i2mo. 

LYRICS  OF  LIFE.     izmo. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


LYRICS    OF   LIFE 


LYRICS   OF    LIFE 


BY 


FLORENCE    EARLE   COATES 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(£be  RtVictsi&e  prcaa  Cambridge 
1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY  FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 
ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  Decembe 


PS 


TO 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL 

PHYSICIAN,  NOVELIST,  AND  POET 

WITH  ADMIRATION 
AND  GRATEFUL  REGARD 


LIBRARY 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

EARTH'S  MYSTERY i 

A  TRAVELLER  FROM  ALTRURIA 2 

INDIAN-PIPE 5 

LOVE,  DOST  THOU  SMILE  ? 6 

THE  LARK 7 

"  HONOR,  NOT  HONORS  " Q 

SONG  :    "  SWEET  IS  THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE  " IO 

MOTHER II 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 12 

LEADERS  OF  MEN 14 

HELEN  KELLER  WITH  A  ROSE  . 15 

LEAVE-TAKING l6 

VESTAL 17 

THE  HOUSE  OF  PAIN l8 

TO-DAY 19 

AFTER  THE  PAINTINGS  BY  GEORGE  F.  WATTS 

I.   LOVE  AND  DEATH 21 

II.   LOVE  AND  LIFE 23 

APRIL 24 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 25 


viii  CONTENTS 

BEFORE  THE   DAWN 27 

AB  HUMO , 29 

NOCTURNE 30 

A  HERO 31 

AMOR  CREATOR 32 

THE  MIRROR 33 

OF  LOVE 34 

AFTER  THE  PLAY 35 

BEYOND 40 

A  FAREWELL 41 

TO  HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN 43 

SONG  :    "  IF  LOVE  WERE  BUT  A  LITTLE  THING"        ...  45 

WITH  BREATH  OF  SPRING 46 

A  LOWLY  PARABLE 47 

INFLUENCE 49 

THE  POET 50 

L'AMOUR  FAIT  PEUR 51 

HONOR S2 

EURYDICE S3 

BEAUTY'S  PATH 56 

FRITZ  SCHEEL  —  A  TRIBUTE 57 

REPROACH  NOT  DEATH 58 

MARS  —  1907 59 

BESIDE  A  PLEASANT  SHORE 6l 

THE  SUN-DIAL 62 


CONTENTS  ix 

RETROSPECT 63 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 65 

THE  PILGRIM 66 

MOTHER-LOVE 69 

"  THE  SENSE  OF  TEARS  IN  MORTAL  THINGS  "        ....  70 

AN  AMERICAN  AT  LINCOLN 71 

AFFINITY 73 

TWO  BROTHERS 74 

CONFLICT  AND  REST 78 

CHILD-FANCIES 

I.   ASPHODEL 79 

II.   GATHERED  WILD-FLOWERS 8o 

DEARTH 8l 

MID-OCEAN 82 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LADY  CURZON 83 

BEREFT   .      .      . 84 

THE  MARTYR  JEWS 85 

LE  GRAND  SALUT 86 

INHERITOR 87 

WHEN  YOU  CAME 88 

THE  YOUNG  WIFE 89 

SONG  :  "  LOVE  NEVER  IS  TOO  LATE  " 9! 

THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  ANDES 92 

EARTH'S  BLOSSOMS 93 

ECHO  CONSOLATRIX 94 


x  CONTENTS 

JOHN  HAY 95 

PRIVILEGE 97 

DAI  NIPPON 98 

A  LITTLE  SONG IOI 

THE  EMPTY  HOUSE IO2 

KINDRED 103 

COURAGE 105 

CRUEL  LOVE Id6 

"EACH  AND  ALL" 108 

SAINT  THERESA log 

IN  MEMORY  OF  CAROLINE  FURNESS  JAYNE Ill 

AFTER 112 

THE  VIOLIN 113 

PER  ASPERA 115 

THE  HERMIT Il6 

THANKSGIVING 117 

POETRY   ....  Il8 


LYRICS   OF  LIFE 


LYRICS   OF   LIFE 


EARTH'S   MYSTERY 

I  LOOKED  on  Sorrow,  tragical  and  dread ; 

Beheld  the  anguish  in  her  sunken  eyes, 

Which  yearned  no  longer  upward  to  the  skies,  — 
As  dumbly  pleading  to  be  comforted,  — 
But  bent  their  blinded  vision  on  the  dead  : 

The   dead  removed  —  how  far !  —  from  human 
sighs, 

Lying  majestic,  as  a  conqueror  lies, 
Indifferent  to  tears,  so  costly  shed. 

But  as  I  pondered,  seeking,  soul-oppressed, 
To  read  the  riddle  of  a  world  like  this  — 

Where  Nature  still  seems  waiting  to  destroy, 
I  saw  immortal  Love  descend  and  kiss, 
With  timid  wonder,  reverent  and  blest, 

The  quivering  eyelids  and  the  lips  of  Joy ! 


A  TRAVELLER  FROM  ALTRURIA 

HE  came  to  us  with  dreams  to  sell  — 

Ah,  long  ago  it  seems  ! 
From  regions  where  enchantments  dwell, 
He  came  to  us  with  dreams  to  sell,  — 

And  we  had  need  of  dreams. 

Our  thought  had  planned  with  artful  care, 

Our  patient  toil  had  wrought, 
The  roomy  treasure-houses  where 
Were  heaped  the  costly  and  the  rare,  — 
But  dreams  we  had  not  bought : 

Nay ;  we  had  felt  no  need  of  these, 

Until  with  dulcet  strain, 
Alluring  as  the  melodies 
That  mock  the  lonely  on  the  seas, 

He  made  all  else  seem  vain ; 

Bringing  an  aching  sense  of  dearth, 

A  troubled,  vague  unrest, 
A  fear  that  we,  whose  care  on  Earth 
Had  been  to  garner  things  of  worth, 

Had  somehow  missed  the  best. 


A  TRAVELLER  FROM  ALTRURIA 

Then,  as  had  been  our  wont  before,  — 

Unused  in  vain  to  sigh,  — 
We  turned  our  treasure  o'er  and  o'er, 
But  found  in  all  our  vaunted  store 

No  coin  that  dreams  would  buy. 

We  stood  with  empty  hands :  but  gay 

As  though  upborne  on  wings, 
He  left  us  ;  and  at  set  of  day 
We  heard  him  singing,  far  away, 
The  joy  of  simple  things  ! 

He  left  us,  and  with  apathy  * 

We  gazed  upon  our  gold ; 
But  to  the  world's  ascendancy 
Submissive,  soon  we  came  to  be 

Much  as  we  were  of  old. 

Yet  sometimes  when  the  fragrant  dawn 

In  early  splendor  beams, 
And  sometimes  when,  the  twilight  gone, 
The  moon  o'er-silvers  wood  and  lawn, 

An  echo  of  his  dreams 

Brings  to  the  heart  a  swift  regret 

That  is  not  wholly  pain, 
And,  grieving,  we  would  not  forget 
The  vision,  hallowed  to  us  yet,  — 

The  hope  that  seemed  so  vain. 


A  TRAVELLER  FROM  ALTRURIA 

And  then  we  envy  not  the  throng 

That  careless  passes  by, 
With  no  remembrance  of  the  song, 
Though  we  must  listen  still,  and  long 

To  hear  it  till  we  die  ! 


INDIAN-PIPE 

IN  the  heart  of  the  forest  arising, 

Slim,  ghostly,  and  fair, 
Ethereal  offspring  of  moisture, 

Of  earth  and  of  air ; 
With  slender  stems  anchored  together 

Where  first  they  uncurl, 
Each  tipped  with  its  exquisite  lily 

Of  mother-of-pearl ; 
'Mid  the  pine-needles,  closely  enwoven 

Its  roots  to  embale,  — 
The  Indian-pipe  of  the  woodland, 

Thrice  lovely  and  frail ! 

Is  this  but  an  earth-springing  fungus  — 

This  darling  of  Fate 
Which  out  of  the  mouldering  darkness 

Such  light  can  create  ? 
Or  is  it  the  spirit  of  Beauty, 

Here  drawn  by  love's  lure 
To  give  to  the  forest  a  something 

Unearthy  and  pure  : 
To  crystallize  dewdrop  and  balsam 

And  dryad-lisped  words 
And  starbeam  and  moonrise  and  rapture 

And  song  of  wild  birds? 


LOVE,   DOST  THOU   SMILE? 

LOVE,  dost  thou  smile  —  believing  thou  shalt  cheat 
The  triform  Fates,  because  thou  art  so  sweet  ? 
Thy  beauty,  which  delights  and  makes  afraid, 
Shall  surely  as  the  rose  of  autumn  fade, 
And  pain  and  grief  shall  find  thee,  and  slow  scorn  ; 
And  thou  shalt   know  neglect,   and  friendship 

hollow ; 

And  at  the  last,  pale  hope,  thy  light  of  morn, 
Shall  bring  thee  to  a  goal  where  none  will  fol 
low. 

Love,  dost  thou  weep  —  in  all  the  sorrowing  earth, 
Thou  the  one  only  thing  of  perfect  worth  ? 
Midnight  and  morn  alike  to  thee  belong; 
Poor,  thou  art  rich  ;  defenceless,  thou  art  strong  ; 
Upon  thy  altar  burns  perpetual  fire 

That  mounts  and  flames  aloft  to  heaven's  high 

portal ; 
Thou  quickenest,  from  evil,  pure  desire,  — 

Triumphant  in  defeat,  in  death  immortal ! 


THE  LARK 

THERE  is  a  legend  somewhere  told 
Of  how  the  skylark  came  of  old 

To  the  dying  Saviour's  cross, 
And  circling  round  that  form  of  pain 
Poured  forth  a  wild,  lamenting  strain, 

As  if  for  human  loss. 

Pierced  by  those  accents  of  despair, 
Upon  the  little  mourner  there 

Turning  his  fading  eyes, 
The  Saviour  said,  "  Dost  thou  so  mourn, 
And  is  thy  fragile  breast  so  torn, 

That  Man,  thy  brother,  dies  ? 

"  O'er  all  the  world  uplifted  high, 
We  are  alone  here,  thou  and  I ; 

And  near  to  heaven  and  thee 
I  bless  thy  pity-guided  wings  ! 
I  bless  thy  voice  —  the  last  that  sings 

Love's  requiem  for  me  ! 

"  Sorrow  shall  cease  to  fill  thy  song ; 
These  frail  and  fluttering  wings  grown  strong, 
Thou  shalt  no  longer  fly 


THE  LARK 

Earth's  captive  —  nay,  but  boldly  dare 
The  azure  vault,  and  upward  bear 
Thy  transports  to  the  sky  !  " 

Soon  passed  the  Saviour ;  but  the  lark, 
Close  hovering  near  Him  in  the  dark, 

Could  not  his  grief  abate  ; 
And  nigh  the  watchers  at  the  tomb, 
Still  mourned  through  days  of  grief  and  gloom, 

With  note  disconsolate. 

But  when  to  those  sad  mourners  came, 
In  rose  and  amethyst  and  flame, 

The  Dawn  Miraculous, 
Song  in  which  sorrow  had  no  part 
Burst  from  the  lark's  triumphant  heart  — 

Sweet  and  tumultuous ! 

An  instant,  as  with  rapture  blind, 
He  faltered  ;  then,  his  Lord  to  find, 

Straight  to  the  ether  flew,  — 
Rising  where  falls  no  human  tear, 
Singing  where  still  his  song  we  hear 

Piercing  the  upper  blue  ! 


" HONOR,  NOT  HONORS" 

HAST  thou  for  honor  laid  ambition  down  ? 

Honor,  itself,  shall  be  thy  sure  reward, 
A  guard  more  certain  than  a  flaming  sword, 

A  crown  —  above  a  crown. 

Since  it  is  honor  stays  thy  lofty  quest, 

Welcome  the  high  defeat  thy  spirit  dares  ! 
Aye,  wear  it  proudly  as  a  victor  wears 

The  star  upon  his  breast ! 


SONG 

SWEET    IS   THE   BIRTH    OF   LOVE 

SWEET  is  the  birth  of  love,  and  the  awaking, 

The  bashful  dream,  the  faltering  desire, 

The  vision  fair  —  of  all  fair  things  partaking  — 
The  wonder,  the  communicable  fire  : 

Sweet  is  the  need  to  give  and  to  obtain,  — 
And  sweet  love's  pain ! 


MOTHER 

Ax  twilight  here  I  sit  alone, 

Yet  not  alone  ;  for  thoughts  of  thee,  — 
Pale  images  of  pleasure  flown,  — 

Like  homing  birds,  return  to  me. 

Again  the  shining  chestnut  braids 
Are  soft  enwreathed  about  thy  brow, 

And  light  —  a  light  that  never  fades  — 
Beams  from  thine  eyes  upon  me  even  now, 

As,  all  undimmed  by  death  and  night, 
Remembrance  out  of  distance  brings 

Thy  youthful  loveliness,  alight 

With  ardent  hope  and  high  imaginings. 

Ah,  mortal  dreams,  how  fair,  how  fleet ! 

Thy  yearnings  scant  fulfilment  found  ; 
Dark  Lethe  long  hath  laved  thy  feet, 

And  on  thy  slumber  breaks  no  troubling  sound 

Yet  distance  parts  thee  not  from  me, 

For  beauty  —  or  of  twilight  or  of  morn  — 

Binds  me,  still  closer  binds,  to  thee, 

Whose  heart  sang  to  my  heart  ere  I  was  born. 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN 

"  Eripuit  coelo  fulmen,  sceptrumque  tyrannis." 

FRANKLIN  !  our  Franklin  !  America's  loved  son  !  — 
Loved  in  his  day,  and  now,  as  few  indeed  : 

Franklin  !  whose  mighty  genius  allies  won, 
To  aid  her,  in  great  need  ! 

Franklin  !  with  noble  charm  that  fear  allays,  — 
Tact,  judgment,   insight,    humor  naught   could 
dim  !  — 

"  Antiquity,"  said  Mirabeau,  "  would  raise 
Altars  to  honor  him  !  " 

How  should  one  country  claim  him,  or  one  hour  ? 

Bound  to  no  narrow  circuit,  and  no  time, 
He  is  the  World's  —  part  of  her  lasting  dower, 

One  with  her  hope  sublime. 

His  kindred  are  the  equable  and  kind 

Whose  constant  thought  is  to  uplift  and  bless ; 

The  witty,  and  the  wise,  the  large  of  mind, 
Who  ignorance  redress : 

His  kindred  are  the  bold  who,  undismayed, 
Believe  that  good  is  ever  within  reach,  — 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  13 

All  who  move  onward  —  howsoe'er  delayed  — 
Who  learn,  that  they  may  teach  : 

Who  overcoming  pain  and  weariness, 
In  life's  long  battle  bear  a  noble  part ; 

All  who,  like  him,  — greatest  of  gifts  !  —  possess 
The  genius  of  the  heart ! 

How  should  we  praise  whose  deeds  belittle  praise, 
Whose  monument  perpetual  is  our  land 

Saved  by  his  wisdom,  in  disastrous  days, 
From  tyranny's  strong  hand  ?  — 

How  praise  whose  Titan-thought,  beyond  Earth's 
ken 

Aspiring,  tamed  the  lightnings  in  revolt, 
Subduing  to  the  will  of  mortal  men 

The  awful  thunderbolt  ? 

Our  debt  looms  larger  than  our  love  can  pay : 
We  know  not  with  what  homage  him  to  grace 

Whose  name  outlasts  the  monument's  decay,  — 
A  glory  to  our  race ! 

With  tireless  hope,  he  seems  to  move  before 
Beck'ning  to  all  that  helpful  is  and  free  : 

A  lover  of  mankind,  inheritor 
Of  Immortality ! 


LEADERS   OF   MEN 

WHEN  they  are  dead,  we  heap  the  laurels  high 
Above  them  where,  indifferent,  they  lie  : 

We  join  their  deeds  to  unaccustomed  praise, 
And  crown  with  garlands  of  immortal  bays 
Whom,  living,  we  but  thought  to  crucify. 

As  mountains  seem  less  glorious  viewed  too  nigh, 
So,  often,  do  the  great  whom  we  decry 

Gigantic  loom  to  our  astonished  gaze  — 
When  they  are  dead ; 

For,  shamed  by  largeness,  littlenesses  die  ; 
And  partisan  and  narrow  hates  put  by, 

We  shrine  our  heroes  for  the  future  days ; 

And  to  atone  our  ignorant  delays 
With  fond  and  emulous  devotion  try,  — 
When  they  are  dead  ! 


HELEN  KELLER  WITH   A  ROSE 

OTHERS  may  see  thee  ;  I  behold  thee  not ; 

Yet  most  I  think  thee,  beauteous  blossom,  mine  : 
For  I,  who  walk  in  shade,  like  Proserpine  — 

Things  once  too  briefly  looked  on,  long  forgot  — 
Seem  by  some  tender  miracle  divine, 

When  breathing  thee,  apart, 

To  hold  the  rapturous  summer  warm  within  my 
heart. 

We  understand  each  other,  thou  and  I ! 
Thy  velvet  petals  laid  against  my  cheek, 
Thou  feelest  all  the  voiceless  things  I  speak, 

And  to  my  yearning  makest  mute  reply  : 
Yet  a  more  special  good  of  thee  I  seek, 

For  God  who  made  —  oh,  kind  !  — 

Beauty  for  one  and  all,  gave  fragrance  for  the  blind ! 


LEAVE-TAKING 

THOUGH  hence  I  go  —  though  with  the  fading  day 

I  seem  to  fade  away,  — 
Like  to  a  primrose  which  beguiling  Spring, 
Too  early  fanning  with  perfumed  wing, 

Tempts,  only  to  betray  : 

Though  soon  I  sleep,  — yet  sorrow  not,  nor  fear 

That  you  shall  lose  me,  dear  ! 
For  not  one  cherished  memory  — 
One  single  yearning  of  your  heart  for  me, 
Shall  fail  to  bring  me  near ! 

How  strange  could  death  divide  who,  living,  share 

All  happiness  and  care  ! 
Still  as  you  gaze,  bereft  of  your  desire, 
On  the  dull  embers  of  your  lonely  fire, 

You  shall  behold  me  there, 

And  though  through  hiemal  glooms  you  sometimes 

learn 

To  doubt,  nor  hope  discern,  — 
Yet  when  the  timid  firstling  buds  awake, 
And  birds  come  back  and   sing,    your   heart   to 
break,  — 

Always,  I  shall  return  ! 


VESTAL 

SHE  dwelt  apart,  as  one  whom  love  passed  by, 
Yet  in  her  heart  love  glowed  with  steadfast  beam  ; 
And  as  the  moonlight  on  a  wintry  stream 

With  paly  radiance  doth  glorify 

All  barren  things  that  in  its  circle  lie, 

So,  from  within,  love  shed  so  fair  a  gleam 
About  her,  that  it  made  her  desert  seem 

A  paradise,  abloom  immortally. 

Some  rashly  pitied  her ;  but,  to  atone, 

If  one  perchance  gazed  long  upon  her  face, 

He  grew  to  feel  himself  more  strangely  lone  — 
Love  lent  her  look  such  amplitude  of  grace  ; 

Yet  who  that  would  have  made  that  love  his  own 
Aught  worthy  had  to  offer  in  its  place  ? 


THE   HOUSE  OF  PAIN 

UNTO  the  Prison   House  of   Pain  none  willingly 

repair,  — 

The  bravest  who  an  entrance  gain 
Reluctant  linger  there,  — 
For  Pleasure,   passing  by  that  door,  stays  not  to 

cheer  the  sight. 
And  Sympathy  but  muffles  sound  and  banishes  the 

light. 

Yet  in  the  Prison  House  of  Pain  things  full  of 

beauty  blow,  — 

Like  Christmas-roses,  which  attain 
Perfection  'mid  the  snow,  — 
Love,   entering,   in  his  mild  warmth  the  darkest 

shadows  melt, 
And  often,  where  the  hush  is  deep,  the  waft  of 

wings  is  felt. 

Ah,  me  !  the  Prison  House  of  Pain !  —  what  lessons 

there  are  bought !  — 
Lessons  of  a  sublimer  strain 
Than  any  elsewhere  taught,  — 
Amid   its  loneliness  and  gloom,  grave   meanings 

grow  more  clear, 
For  to   no  earthly  dwelling-place  seems  God  so 

strangely  near ! 


TO-DAY 

WHERE  hast  thou  gone,  my  Day  ? 

I  meant  to  follow, 
Extracting  from  thine  every  hour  its  sweet ; 

But  thou,  beguiling  hope  with  pledges  hollow, 
Art  flown  on  winged  feet. 

Hardly  I  greet  thy  morn, 

The  glory  dwindles ; 
And  as  I  plan  thy  moments  with  delight, 

The  evening-primrose  in  my  pathway  kindles 
Her  taper  for  the  night. 

Ah,  too  precipitate ! 

Might  I  not  linger 
To  gather  a  stray  blossom  by  the  way, 

But  pointing  onward  with  thy  warning  finger, 
Thou  must  outstrip  me,  Day  ? 

Gladly  I  welcomed  thee, 

An  eager  lover 
Who  deemed  he  knew  each  fleeting  moment's  cost. 

Is  there  no  way,  no  method,  to  recover 
The  treasure  I  have  lost  ? 


20  TO-DAY 

Ah,  no  !    From  Time,  alas  ! 

One  may  not  borrow  ; 
Nor  move  him  what  is  squandered  to  restore. 

The   tide  flows   back,  and   there   may  dawn  a 

morrow ; 
TJiee  I  shall  find  no  more. 


AFTER  THE  PAINTINGS   BY 
GEORGE   F.   WATTS 

i 

LOVE   AND   DEATH 

A  MOMENT,  Death  !  —  only  a  moment  more  ! 
She  is  my  all ;  have  pity  !  stay  thy  hand  1 
Behold,  a  fearful  suppliant  I  stand  !  — 

Take  not  away  what  thou  canst  not  restore ! 

At  thy  approach  the  birds  have  ceased  to  sing, 
The  roses  of  my  lintel  droop  and  pine, 
The  genial  sun  itself  doth  coldly  shine, 

And  in  thy  shadow  all  seems  darkening. 

That  thou  art  merciless,  as  men  declare, 

I  '11  not  believe.    Thy  look  is  kind,  not  stern  ; 
And  they  who  judge  thee  ill.  of  me  shall  learn 

To  know  thee  better,  Death  !  —  for  thou  wilt  spare  ! 

See,  thou  art  strong!  and  I  am  weak  —  so  weak  ! 
All  beings  that  draw  breath  at  last  are  thine : 
Thou  wilt  not  covet  this  sole  joy  of  mine  — 

Nor  to  deprive  me  of  its  solace  seek  ? 


22  LOVE  AND  DEATH 

Yet  come  no  nearer  !   Shouldst  thou  pass  this  door, 
My  heart  that  so  importunes  thee  would  break. 
Go  back  a  little !   for  compassion's  sake, 

Go  back !  and  hither  —  ah,  return  no  more  ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  !    O  awful  Majesty! 

Thy  very  breath  appalls  my  fluttering  heart. 

Invader  dread,  what  strength  have  I,  or  art  — 
What,  save  my  anguish,  to  oppose  'gainst  thee  ? .  .  . 

Enter !  the  door  is  open.   Yet  this  much 
Let  my  submission  of  thy  pity  earn : 
When  through  the  shaded  portal  thou  return, 

On  me  —  me,  also,  lay  thy  easeful  touch  ! 


II 

LOVE   AND    LIFE 

THY  hand  I  press, 

And  am  not  much  afraid  : 

Though  danger  lie  in  wait  in  every  glade, 
Thou,  Love,  hast  might  to  comfort  and  caress 
My  helplessness. 

The  way  is  steep ; 

But  thou  wilt  soothe  its  pain  • 

And  when  at  last  the  utmost  height  we  gain, 
To  the  soft  shelter  of  thy  wings  I  '11  creep, 
And  sleep  —  and  sleep. 

The  way  is  long  ; 

But  though  I  wearied  be, 

Still  gazing  upward,  I  shall  gaze  on  thee ; 
And  thy  angelic  voice,  more  sweet  than  song, 
Will  make  me  strong. 

Whate'er  betide, 

I,  Love,  —  who  may  not  know 

Whence  I  have  journeyed,  nor  the  way  I  go,  - 
Am  still  content  to  follow  at  thy  side, 
O  deathless  guide  ! 


APRIL 

SWELLING  bud  and  fond  suggestion, 

Wafting  of  perfume, 
Tearful  rapture,  thrilling  question 

Of  restraint  or  bloom, 
Life  all  dreamlessly  asleeping, 

As  in  death,  but  now, 
Upward  to  the  sunshine  creeping,  — 

April,  that  is  thou  ! 

Mystery's  authentic  dwelling, 

Faith's  expanding  wing, 
Maiden  loveliness  foretelling 

Fuller  blossoming, 
Prophet  of  the  new  creation, 

Priestess  of  the  bough, 
Month  of  the  imagination,  — 

April,  that  is  thou  ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

1807-1882 

IF  tasting  Heliconian  springs 

He  of  their  waters  drank  not  deep, 
If,  smiling,  he  beheld  not  things 

Revealed  to  eyes  that  weep, 
If  dread  Dodona's  Oracle 

And  Delphi's  voice  for  him  were  mute, 
If  grave  Minerva  in  his  path 

Dropped  never  silver  flute,  — 

Yet  beauty  wove  a  magic  spell 

For  him,  and  early,  at  his  need, 
Upon  a  bed  of  asphodel 

He  found  a  tuneful  reed,  — 
The  Syrinx-reed  Thessalian, 

Of  plaintive,  far  renown, 
The  universal  pipe  of  Pan,  — 

Where  the  god  laid  it  down. 

Right  reverently  from  the  ground 

He  lifted  up  the  sacred  thing, 
Accepted  it  with  awe  profound, 

With  faith  unfaltering ; 


26    HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

And  when  its  music  forth  he  drew 
Earth  half  forgot  her  ancient  pain, 

For  Marsyas  himself  ne'er  blew 
A  purer,  sweeter  strain  ! 

Though  some  there  be  who,  self-attired 

In  robes  of  judgment  they  misuse, 
Protest  that  he  was  not  inspired 

By  the  authentic  Muse,  — 
Love,  granting  all  his  faults  to  these, 

Forever  holds  his  name  apart, 
Who  moved  not  senseless  stones  and  trees, 

But  the  quick  human  heart. 

"The  people's  poet."    Did  he  lack 

Return  ?    He  served  in  high  degree 
The  people,  and  they  gave  him  back 

Their  immortality ! 
Time  careless  grows  of  costly  wit, 

Brave  monuments  are  quickly  gone,  — 
But  that  which  on  the  heart  is  writ 

Lives  on,  and  on,  and  on ! 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN 

I  LOOKED  on  beauteous  forms,  as  I  lay  dreaming, 
But  on  no  form  as  beautiful  as  thine, 

Who  here,  amid  the  moonbeams  white  and  holy, 
Standest  in  silence  by  this  bed  of  mine. 

I  looked  on  faces  fair,  as  I  lay  sleeping, 
But  on  no  face  that  seemed  so  nobly  sweet 

As  that  which  in  the  pallid  light  above  me 

My  wondering,  half-awakened  sense  doth  greet. 

Who  and  what  art  thou  ?  Have  I  kept  thee  waiting  ? 

My  sleep  was  as  a  river  deep  and  calm  • 
Bring'st  thou  perchance  some  word  of  import  for 

me? 

Hast  thou  for  broken  hearts,  like  mine,  some 
balm? 

Who  and  what  art  thou  ?   In  my  tranquil  vision 
I  gazed  through  rifted  clouds  on  azure  skies,  — 

I   seemed   to   gaze   beyond   them,  —  but   naught 

moved  me 
Like  the  deep  pity  in  thy  brooding  eyes. 

Why  art  thou  here  to-night  ?   I  have  been  lonely  — 
Have  waited,  prayed,  for  such  an  one  as  thou, 


28  BEFORE  THE  DAWN 

To  still  with  presence  kind  my  pulse's  throbbing, 
To  lay  a  cooling  touch  upon  my  brow. 

Tell  me  thy  name  !  Then,  pain  and  fear  forgotten, 
I  straightway  will  arise  and  follow  thee, 

Who,  as  I  think,  art  hither  come  to  guide  me 
To  larger  hope  and  opportunity. 

Tell  me  thy  name !  I  long,  I  need,  to  hear  it ! 

Thy   name !  —  I    may    not    plead,    for    failing 

breath,  - 
With  look  compassionate,  the  august  stranger 

Made  answer  very  softly :  "  /  am  Death" 


AB  HUMO 

THE  seedling  hidden  in  the  sod 
Were  ill  content  immured  to  stay; 
Slowly  it  upward  makes  its  way 

And  finds  the  light  at  last,  thank  God  ! 

The  most  despised  of  mortal  things  — 
The  worm  devoid  of  hope  or  bliss, 
Discovers  in  the  chrysalis 

Too  narrow  space  for  urgent  wings. 

These  are  my  kindred  of  the  clay : 
But  as  I  struggle  from  the  ground 
Such  weakness  in  my  strength  is  found, 

I  seem  less  fortunate  than  they. 

Yet  though  my  progress  be  but  slow, 
And  failure  oft  obscure  the  past, 
I,  too,  victorious  at  last, 

Shall  reach  the  longed-for  light,  I  know ! 


NOCTURNE 

THE  houseless  wind  has  gone  to  rest 
In  some  rude  cavern-bed  of  ocean, 
And  Neptune  smooths  each  foamy  crest, 

At  Dian's  will,  with  meek  devotion ; 
The  shepherd,  gathering  his  sheep, 

Has  brought  them  safely  to  the  fold,  — 
And  in  my  arms  my  world  I  hold  ! 
Sleep ! 

Forespent  with  hunting  on  the  hill, 
My  truant,  in  the  dusk  returning, 
Finds  the  lone  heart,  he  left  at  will, 

With  the  one  worship  burning. 
The  moonlight  pales  —  the  shade  grows  deep  — 
The  nightingale  doth  silence  break  ! 
Ah,  love,  till  first  the  lark  shall  wake, 
Sleep ! 

No  homeless  wanderer  art  thou ! 

Here,  pillowed  safe,  thy  head  is  lying. 
The  nightingale  !   Ah,  listen  now  ! 

What  passion  —  death  itself  defying  ! 
Peace !    All  the  stars  thy  vigil  keep, 

And  fragrant  breathes  each  mystic  flower 
That  blooms  to-night  in  Dreamland  bower : 
Sleep ! 


A  HERO 

HE  sang  of  joy ;  whate'er  he  knew  of  sadness 
He  kept  for  his  own  heart's  peculiar  share : 

So  well  he  sang,  the  world  imagined  gladness 
To  be  sole  tenant  there. 

For  dreams  were  his;  and  in  the  dawn's  fair  shining, 
His  spirit  soared  beyond  the  mounting  lark ; 

But  from  his  lips  no  accent  of  repining 
Fell  when  the  days  grew  dark ; 

And  though  contending  long  dread  Fate  to  master, 
He  failed  at  last  her  enmity  to  cheat, 

He  turned  with  such  a  smile  to  face  disaster 
That  he  sublimed  defeat. 


AMOR  CREATOR 

LOVE  is  enough :  were  all  we  fondly  cherish 
To  pass  as  visions  melt  at  dawn  of  day, 

Were  bud  and  blossom,  fruit  and  leaf,  to  perish, 
Love  could  rebuild  them  in  his  perfect  way ; 

For  he  who  makes  the  tides  to  ebb  and  flow, 

Each  secret  of  creation  well  doth  know. 

His  warmth  illumes  the  glow-worm's  fickle  spark, 
And  beams  in  Aldebaran's  steadfast  fire : 

With  him  there  is  no  winter  and  no  dark; 
The  font,  the  burning  font,  of  pure  desire, 

All  forms  of  beauty  unto  him  belong,  — 

The  rose,  the  avalanche,  the  wild  bird's  song. 

On  Latmos'  height  pale  Dian  dreams  about  him, 
His  voice  low  echoes  in  the  ocean  shell, 

The  bee  could  fill  no  honey-cup  without  him, 
The  violet  no  fragrant  secret  tell : 

Remote  yet  near,  changeful  yet  still  the  same, 

Love  is  creation's  breath  and  vital  flame  ! 


THE   MIRROR 

POET,  why  wilt  thou  wander  far  afield  ? 

Turn  again  home  !    There,  also,  Nature  sings, 

And  to  thy  heart  —  her  magic-mirror  —  brings 
All  images  of  life  :  thence  will  she  yield 
Every  emotion  in  Man's  breast  concealed  : 

Love,  hate,  ambition,  —  hope,  that  heavenward 
wings,  — 

The   peasant's   toil,  the   care   that   waits   on 

kings,  — 
All,  in  thy  heart's  clear  crystal,  plain  revealed. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  ?  One  there  was  who  turning 

His  poet-vision  inward,  through  the  years, 
Found  Falstaff's  wit,  and  Prospero's  high  yearning, 
Shared  Hamlet's  doubt,  the  madness  that  was 

Lear's,  — 

Saw  Wolsey's  pride,  and  Romeo's  passion,  burn 
ing,— 
Knew  Desdemona's  truth,  and  felt  her  tears  ! 


OF  LOVE 

OF  Love  the  gods  require  no  task, 
Content  to  grant  whate'er  may  ask 

The  boy  from  Venus  sprung,  — 
For  howsoever  grave  his  mask, 

They  know  the  lad  is  young : 

Aye,  young,  indeed !   Though,  spite  of  warning, 
Often  at  dusk,  all  prudence  scorning, 

He  daring  sail  unfurls,  — 
Yet,  fragrant  still,  the  breath  of  morning 

Lingers  amid  his  curls. 

What  count  takes  he  of  days  or  years  ?  — 
E'en  pain  itself  but  more  endears 

The  strange,  immortal  boy, 
Who  whilst  his  eyes  o'er-brim  with  tears, 

Yet  keeps  the  heart  of  joy ! 


AFTER  THE  PLAY 

You  say  I  'm  dying !    It  is  so,  I  think  : 
All  pain  has  left  me,  and  I  seem  to  sink  — 
A  child,  content,  back  to  the  Mother's  breast. 
Life  grew  full  sweet  of  late,  —  but  death  is  best. 

I  wanted  just  this  one  last  quiet  hour 
To  tell  you  how  hope  grew  fruition's  flower,  — 
Giving  me,  in  a  moment,  bliss  to  know, 
Beyond  what  tranquil  ages  might  bestow. 

You  must  not  weep,  my  friend  !    Consider  still 
How  many  lives  go  frustrate  of  their  will ; 
How  many  spend  in  vain,  and  fruitless  tire  !  — 
I  near  the  goal  of  my  supreme  desire. 

Your  tears  reproach  the  happiness  I  feel, 
And  from  this  dear  contentment  something  steal. 
Smile,  if  you  can,  beloved  !  nor  delay 
What  I  would  tell  you  ere  I  go  my  way. 


Love  gives  but  as  Love  will  :  this  have  I  proved, 
Who  through  long  wistful  years  have  vainly  loved, 
Yet  find  my  life  at  last  on  death's  sheer  brink  — 
Of  purest  joy  from  lethal  fountains  drink. 


36  AFTER  THE  PLAY 

You  know  't  was  not  my  right  to  dream  of  her, 
Though  I  had  served  her  long  —  love's  pensioner  — 
Grateful  for  modest  favor  at  her  hands, 
For  mere  acceptance,  or  for  mild  commands,  — 

But  on  that  night,  across  the  theatre 
I  saw  her  come,  and  felt  the  restless  stir 
Of  mad  desires  held  in  leash  till  then  : 
A  longing  to  stand  equal  with  the  men 

Who,  for  no  merit,  dared  to  keep  her  side,  — 
Suspecting  not  the  barriers  that  divide 
Natures  like  hers  from  those  of  meaner  birth. 
I  knew  her  throned  above  me,  felt  the  worth 

Of  things  they  recked  not  of  —  her  richest  dower  — 
Yet  longed  that  life  should  yield  me  for  one  hour 
The  right  to  stand  before  her  —  even  as  these  ? 
Nay ;  but  the  right  to  fall  before  her  knees, 

To  touch  in  worship  her  white  garment's  hem, 
To  win  the  smile  so  lightly  given  them 
Because  her  heart  with  happiness  o'erflowed, 
Unconscious  of  the  largess  it  bestowed. 

Ah,  me  !  —  to  think,  what  barren  pain  I  felt ! 
Hopeless  as  one  who  in  a  desert  dwelt, 
Exiled  from  all  that  made  his  soul's  delight, 
I  gazed  upon  her,  —  was  it,  friend,  last  night  ? 


AFTER  THE  PLAY  37 

The  Play  —  what  matter  ?  —  it  drew  near  the  end, 
Scarce   marked   by   me.    You  know  the  rest,  my 

friend  : 

Waiting  I  sat  there  full  of  sad  desire, 
When,  suddenly,  it  came  —  that  cry  of  "  Fire  !  " 

How  suddenly !    I  started  to  my  feet : 
But  —  as  when  two  on-rushing  torrents  meet 
And  break  the  one  the  other  —  mad  with  fear, 
The  panic-stricken  people,  deaf  to  hear 

Counsel  or  warning,  in  that  burning  tomb 
Hurtled  each  other,  battling  to  their  doom. 
Kind  God,  blot  out  the  scene  —  soon  past ! 
I  to  a  column  near  me  clinging  fast, 

Resisted  the  fell  tide  that  onward  bore 
Its  helpless  prey  with  hideous  uproar. 
Twice  had  I  lost  my  footing ;  yet  I  clave, 
As  one  who  struggles  more  than  life  to  save  — 

My  every  thought  of  her  ;  but  when  at  last, 

Sore    bruised   and   breathless,  as    one   shoreward 

cast 

After  rude  shipwreck,  I  dared  raise  my  eyes  — 
Seeking  in  that  vast  Hell  my  Paradise,  — 

There,  like  some  virgin  image  carved  in  stone, 
She  stood  in  her  white  radiance  —  alone. 


38  AFTER  THE  PLAY 

Where  were  the  men  that  loved  her,  as  they  said  ? 
Ah,  bitter  "  where  "  !   They,  all,  too  rashly  fled, 

Had  entered  that  ignoble  human  strife, 

Paying  a  shameful  price  for  paltry  life. 

She  read  my  soul,  I  think  ;  and  then  —  she  smiled. 

Nay,  friend,  —  imagine  not  my  speech  grown  wild !  — 

I  tell  you  true  :  in  that  appalling  place 
She  smiled  —  the  calm  of  heaven  in  her  face. 
Her  service  had  been  long  my  soul's  emprise ; 
Yet  a  new,  wistful  wonder  lit  her  eyes, 

And    pale  —  ay,    pale   as    Hades'   death-crowned 

queen  — 

Across  the  fatal  barriers  between, 
Her  glad  look  seemed  to  say  :  —  "At  last,  I  know  ! 
You,  who  alone  have  loved  me,  could  not  go  ! 

"All  help  were  vain.  —  Stay!  —  let  me  see  your 

face ! " 

So  plead  the  look  ;  then,  with  a  poignant  grace, 
Her  form  bent  toward  me,  her  white  arms  apart, 
She  gave  me  the  veiled  secret  of  her  heart. 

Think  you  we  marked  the  fiery  sepulchre 
In  which  we  stood,  —  thence  nevermore  to  stir  ? 
A  glory  strange  enwrapt  us.  —  Then,  my  friend, 
I  woke,  and  saw  your  face,  and  knew  the  end,  — 


AFTER  THE  PLAY  39 

Not  that  which  you  suppose —  the  end  of  strife,  — 
Not  dissolution  —  and  not  loss  —  but  life  ! 


I  think  she  felt  no  anguish,  knew  no  fear, 
So  mercifully  swift  the  flames  drew  near ; 

For,  even  as  she  smiled,  narcotic  death 
Enveloped  her,  and  stifled  her  sweet  breath ; 
And  the  fire  passed  her  by  and  left  her  there, 
Like  to  a  sleeping  child,  untouched  and  fair. 


All  —  all  that  life  withheld  —  is  mine  at  last ! 
With  love,  with  God,  —  believe  me,  —  there  's  no 

past. 

The  future  waits  —  it  calls  —  I  must  not  stay ! 
The  night  is  over,  —  look !   the  dawn  —  of  Day  ! 


BEYOND 

HAD  we  the  present  —  only  that,  no  more  ! 
Were  the  past,  hidden  by  Oblivion's  door, 

Impenetrable  to  our  backward  gaze,  — 

Its  lessons  lost,  its  joyful,  tearful  days ! 

Were  there  no  vision  of  untrodden  ways, 
No  distant  fields  of  morn,  —  no  blooms  unfound,  — 
No  skyey  hopes  to  beckon  from  the  ground,  — 

No  loves  whose  waiting  welcome  ne'er  betrays ! 

Were  there  no  promise  of  returning  spring 
When  autumn  preens  a  migratory  wing, 

And  on  earth's  hearth  the  fire  is  burning  low  !  — 
Were  there  no  future  with  romance  aglow, 
When  the  chilled  blood  within  the  vein  moves 

slow, 

No  dream  of  a  fair  dawning,  in  the  night,  — 
No  fond  expectancy,  —  no  pledge  of  light 

Fairer  than  cloud-veiled  days  of  winter  know ! 

To-morrow  !  —  mystic  word  of  the  Ideal ! 
What  were  all  else,  wert  thou  not  there  to  heal 

The  deepest  hurt  that  e'er  the  present  gave  ? 

Friend !   Ever  wise  consoler  !   We  are  brave 

Because  of  thee !   Trusting  thy  might  to  save, 
We  journey  onward  toward  an  unknown  land, 
And  close,  and  closer  still,  we  clasp  thy  hand,  — 

Nor  will  be  parted  from  thee  at  the  grave. 


A   FAREWELL 

"  The  utmost  for  the  highest." 

Motto  of  George  P.  Watts. 

AVE  !   Thou  goest  from  us, 

Apart  from  us  to  dwell ; 
Through  sacrifice  to  find  thyself. 

Ave  !  —  but  not  farewell. 

Thou  hast  dreamed  a  dream  of  Leisure ; 

Thou  hast  heard  her  call  thy  name,  — 
The  handmaid  of  enduring  Art, 

Who  feeds  the  quenchless  flame,  — 
And  after  the  Ideal 

Thou  wistfully  would'st  fare, 
Before  whose  shrine  't  is  blest  to  wait,  — 

Though  ne'er  to  enter  there  ! 

Go  forth,  —  for  thou  hast  willed  it,  — 

Untrammelled  as  the  sea ! 
To  find  new  forms  of  loveliness, 

Go  forth  !    Lo,  thou  art  free 
To  hope,  to  learn,  to  listen, 

To  be  breathed  upon,  inspired, 
To  wait  on  the  unhasting  gods, 

With  soul  intent,  untired ; 


42  A  FAREWELL 

Careless  of  gain  or  profit, 
Of  markets,  or  applause, 

To  yield  thy  heart  to  Nature's  heart, 
To  learn  her  dearer  laws ; 

To  gaze  beyond  the  present,  — 
From  the  fleeting  view  of  things, 

To  lift  the  vision  up  and  up ; 

To  feel  the  growth  of  wings ; 

Through  love  and  self-denial, 

To  gain  at  last  the  goal 
That  hidden  from  the  vulgar  gaze 

Beckons  the  purer  soul ; 
Naught  asking  of  the  moment, 

Content  to  strive  and  strive,  — 
Knowing  when  lesser  gods  depart, 

The  gods  themselves  arrive  ! 


Ave  !   Thou  goest  from  us, 
Apart  from  us  to  dwell ; 

Through  sacrifice  to  find  thyself. 
Ave !  —  but  not  farewell ! 


TO   HENRY  MILLS   ALDEN 

OUR  days  by  deeds  are  numbered,  —  and  by  dreams, 
If  we  dream  well  and  nobly  ;  for  it  seems 

That  he  who  would  respond 
By  deed  to  what  is  loveliest  and  best, 
Must,  holding  to  the  near  and  manifest, 

Find  in  the  things  beyond, 
Faith,  ay,  and  courage,  duty  to  fulfil,  — 
Hearing  the  higher  voices  calling  still. 

Thy  youth  those  voices  heard  on  many  a  height, 
In  the  fresh  dawn  and  the  all-fragrant  night, 

For  thou  wast  mountain-born  ; 
And  looking  to  the  hills,  — from  boyhood-days 
Thy  comrades,  —  learned    the  wonder   in  their 
ways, 

Reglorified  each  morn; 

Gaining,  with  deeper  draughts  of  upland  breath, 
Large  images  of  Life  and  lordly  Death. 

And  as  a  man  but  follows  his  lodestar,  — 
For  our  ideals  make  us  what  we  are,  — 

Through  self-effacing  years, 
Thou,  toiling  where  the  burdened  city  moans, 
Hast  lost  no  accent  of  the  higher  zones. 

Smiles,  and  the  truth  of  tears, 


44  TO  HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN 

And  memories,  and  melodies  unsung, 
Have  visited  thy  heart,  and  kept  it  young. 

Thou  hast  had  strength,  where  many  failed,  to  glean 
Good  from  a  doubtful  harvest ;  thou  hast  seen 

Light  where  the  shade  lay  deep. 
The  future  with  the  present  praise  must  blend 
To  crown  thy  triumphs  worthily,  dear  friend ; 

But  we  remembrance  keep 
More  grateful,  even,  for  thyself  than  them, 
And  lay  upon  thy  brow  love's  anadem. 


SONG 

IF  love  were  but  a  little  thing  — 

Strange  love,  which,  more  than  all,  is  great- 
One  might  not  such  devotion  bring, 

Early  to  serve  and  late. 

If  love  were  but  a  passing  breath  — 
Wild  love  —  which,  as  God  knows,  is  sweet- 

One  might  not  make  of  life  and  death 
A  pillow  for  love's  feet. 


WITH   BREATH   OF   SPRING 

THE  air  is  full  of  balm,  I  know  ; 
The  winter  vanished  long  ago. 
In  sheltered  plots  along  the  street 
Crocus  and  tiny  snowdrop  meet, 
And  children  skip  about  and  play  — 
Rejoicing  in  the  glad  noonday  — 
Or  loiter  'neath  some  budding  bough 
Where  bird-notes  will  be  warbled  now  — 
Outside  the  prison  wall. 

The  brook,  by  winter  long  enchained, 
Flows  through  the  meadow  unrestrained  ; 
The  violet  will  blossom  soon, 
The  moth  will  break  from  the  cocoon ; 
And  where  the  happy  children  sing, 
The  fledgling  bird  will  try  his  wing,  — 
But,  O  my  heart !  the  sunshine  there  !  — 
The  grateful  shade  !  —  the  boon,  free  air  — 
Outside  the  prison  wall ! 


A  LOWLY   PARABLE 

AT  first  the  birds  —  so  runs  the  gentle  story 
The  priest  of  Buddha  to  the  people  told, 
With  only  feet  to  bear  them  o'er  the  mould, 

Hopped  to  and  fro,  nor  marked  the  varied  glory 

Of  days  and  seasons  in  their  wondrous  passing ; 
Saw  not  the  wintry  branches  overhead 
By  vernal  airs  revived,  engarlanded, 

Saw  not  the  clouds,  their  forms  in  rivers  glassing, 

Dreamed  not  of  birch-tree-haunts  on  lovely  islands 
Where  sunsets  tarry  late,  as  loth  to  go,  — 
Nor  ever  knew  what  winds  delicious  blow 

From  piny  mountain-peaks  o'er  verdurous  highlands. 

Now  here,  now  there,  absorbed  in  one  endeavor  — 
One  single  aim  —  poor  birds  !  —  the  search  for 

food, 
They  looked  on  all  which  aided  that  as  good,  — 

Toward  any  larger  goal  aspiring  never. 

But  came  a  morning,  strange  and  unforeboded, 
When  from  their  tiny  shoulders  started  things, 
Feathered  atip,  which  presently  were  wings, — 

Full  irksome  to  the  birds,  and  heavy-loaded. 


48  A  LOWLY  PARABLE 

Impatient  of  the  undesired  burden, 

They  huddled  on  the  ground,  disconsolate, 
While     some    complained     reproachfully  :  — 
"  Does  Fate 

Lay  on  us  this  new  care  in  lieu  of  guerdon 

"  For  all  that  we  have  done  and  borne  so  bravely? 
Is 't  not  enough  that  oft,  through  blight  and  snow, 
We   starve  —  we   who    from   toil   no   respite 

know?" 

They  drooped,  they  pined ;  but  said  the  bluebird 
gravely, 

His  pretty  head  with  gallant  air  uplifting : 

"  This  is  indeed  a  burden  which  we  bear  — 
An  added  burden  ;  yet  —  O  why  despair  ?  "  — 

Then,  from  one  foot  to  t'  other  his  weight  shifting, 

He  hopped  about,  in  valor  growing  bolder, 

Till  —  for  new  effort  new  ambition  brings  — 
He  found   at   last  that   he  could  stretch  his 
wings !  .  .  . 

Straightway  the  birds  forgot  the  day  grown  colder  — 

Forgot  the  future's  care,  the  past's  privation  ; 
And  when,  their  fond  desires  fixed  on  high, 
They  knew — O  happy  birds  !  —  that  they  could 

fly,- 

The  burden  had  become  their  exaltation ! 


INFLUENCE 

MY  friend  leaned  o'er  the  flowery  brink 

Of  evil,  bending  down  to  drink ; 

But  though  he  stooped,  resolved  to  take 

The  harmful  draught  despite  my  fears, 
He  yielded  for  my  pleading's  sake  — 

Feeling  my  love  and  tears. 

Again  he  stoops ;  again  I  long 
To  save  a  fellow-man  from  wrong. 
He  was  my  friend  !    Fain,  in  this  hour, 

Would  I  defend  him  as  before : 
I  strive  —  but  I  have  lost  the  power, 

Who  love  him  now  no  more. 


THE  POET 

Is  he  alone  ?   The  myriad  stars  shine  o'er  him, 
The  flowers  bloom  for  him  mid  wintry  frost ; 

He  needs  not  sleep  to  dream,  —  and  dreams  restore 

him 
Whatever  he  has  lost. 

Is  he  forsaken  ?   Beauty's  self  is  nigh  him, 
Closer  than  bride  to  the  fond  lover's  arms,  — 

Veiled,  guarding  still,  to  lift  and  glorify  him, 
The  mystery  of  her  charms. 

Unto  his  soul  she  speaks  in  accents  moving  — 
In  moving  accents  meant  for  him  alone, 

Revealing,  past  all  visioned  heights  of  loving, 
Far-beckoning  heights  unknown. 


L'AMOUR   FAIT  PEUR 

A  COWARD  is  man,  yet  a  hero 

Whose  will  overmasters  his  fear, 
Till  peril  no  longer  appals  him, 

And  danger  itself  groweth  dear. 
Poised  and  strong,  asking  no  intervention, 

He  hazards  the  rock  and  the  shoal ; 
One  only  thing  halts  his  pretension  — 

Love  frightens  the  soul. 

Self-disciplined,  slowly  but  surely, 

Disaster  accustomed  to  brave, 
He  makes  a  companion  of  sorrow, 

Nor  falters  at  threat  of  the  grave ; 
Nay,  often  would  hold  it  at  nearer 

Approach  a  beneficent  goal  — 
But,  ah !  with  the  thought  of  one  dearer, 

Love  frightens  the  soul ! 


HONOR 

DIVINE  abstraction,  shadowy  image,  dream 

More  vital  than  substantial  shapes  made  strong 
By  all  the  tireless  energies  of  wrong,  — 

Who  should  deny  thy  being  would  blaspheme 

The  power  that  made  thy  loveliness  supreme, 
Lending  thee  accents  of  auroral  song 
To  comfort  those  who  unto  thee  belong — 

Though  they  go  down  to  dark  Cocytus'  stream. 

Patient  as  Time  art  thou,  eternal  one! 

Yet  who  may  change  thy  judgments  —  or  destroy  ? 
The  conqueror  whom  wily  Egypt  won 
Found  with  life's  honeyed  draught  a  bitter  blent ; 

And  Hector,  fallen  by  the  walls  of  Troy, 
Looked  up,  and  saw  thy  face,  and  was  content. 


EURYDICE 

I  HEAR  thy  voice  !  — 

Ah,  love,  I  hear  thy  voice  ! 
Faint  as  the  sound  of  distant  waters  falling, 
I  hear  thy  voice  above  me  calling,  calling,  — 
And  my  imprisoned  heart, 
Long  held  from  thee  apart, 

Responsive  thrills,  half-tempted  to  rejoice. 

In  Hades  though  I  be, 
Where  the  unnumbered  dead  abide 
In  uneventful,  sunless  eventide, 

I  yet  live  on,  —  for  thou  rememberest  me  ! 
And  like  to  far-off  waters  falling, 
I  hear  thee,  from  the  distance,  calling,  — 

Eurydice  !    Beloved  Eurydice  ! 

In  thy  bright  world,  I  know, 

The  firstlings  of  the  Spring  begin  to  blow  ; 
Moss-violet  and  saffron  daffodil 
Their  perfumes  new  distil, 
And  through  the  veiled  elysian  hours,  — 
Sweeter  for  wafted  scent  of  citron-flowers,  — 

Voices  of  nightingales  soft  come  and  go. 


54  EURYDICE 

The  halcyon  again 

Contented  broods  beside  the  quiet  main ; 
The  ringdove  tells  her  wound 
With  throbbing  breast,  and  undulating  sound 
Which  still,  thy  passion  wronging, 
Awakes  in  thee  the  wilder,  lonelier  longing. 

And  still  my  buried  heart  reflects  thy  pain ! 

Of  .yore  I  had  a  dream  : 
I  thought  —  the  awful  sentinel  asleep  — 

Thou,  with  that  lyre  divine,  supreme, 
Which  first  drew  Argo  downward  to  the  deep, 

Entering  here,  where  chains  are  never  riven, 

Had  with  thy  golden  strain,  Apollo  given, 
Taught  Dis,  the  pitiless,  himself,  to  weep  : 

I  had  a  dream  of  yore  : 
I  thought  love,  mightier  than  death, 

Wide  opened  the  inexorable  door, 
And  offered   me   pure  draughts    of   sun -warmed 

breath. 

I  saw  thy  form  ;  trembling,  I  seemed  to  follow,  — 
When,  sudden,  to  these  rayless  caverns  hollow 

Fate  caught  me  back  —  thee  to  behold  no  more ! 


Yet  still  I  wait  for  thee  ! 
And  surely  thou  wilt  come  again  to  me  ! 
The  hours  delay ;  I  make  no  moan,  — 


EURYDICE  55 

Apart  from  thee,  —  yet  not  alone, 
Sweeter  than  far-off  music  sighing, 
I  hear  thy  voice  forever  crying  :  — 
"  Eurydice  !  —  lost,  lost  Eurydice  !  " 


BEAUTY'S   PATH 

ALL  ugliness  wears  on  its  brow  the  brand 

Of  Time  and  Dissolution ;  from  of  old, 
Its  doubtful  journey  through  a  shifting  sand, 

The  life  in  its  ophidian  breast  is  cold. 
But  beauty's  path  is  one  forever  bright'ning 

In  glory  to  each  far  horizon's  rim  ; 
Warm  in  the  rose  and  golden  in  the  lightning, 

Love's  altar  flame,  the  upward  way  to  Him,  — 
Beauty,  transcending  all  that  bans  and  bars, 
Moves  as  the  light  moves  on,  eternal  as  the  stars  ! 

Too  well  acquaint  with  passions  that  benumb, 

Earth  is  with  them  no  more  in  kind  accord. 
'T  is  only  by  ascending  one  may  come 

Where  waits  for  her  the  new,  the  unexplored. 
She  longs  —  ah,  how  she  longs  !  — to  break  asunder 

Her  ancient  chains,  to  lave  in  morning  dew, 
To  stand  a  little  space  'mid  realms  of  wonder, 

To  feel  her  nearness  to  the  good  and  true. 
She  longs  for  beauty  — vernal  through  the  years  — 
To  touch  the  dried-up  spring  and  fount  of  happy 
tears ! 


FRITZ   SCHEEL 

A   TRIBUTE 

HE  gave  his  life  to  Music,  —  gave  — 
For  love,  not  hire,  —  himself  denying ; 

His  body  rests,  o'erwearied,  in  the  grave, 
But  Music  lives  and  gives  him  life  undying. 

In  the  deep  silence,  may  he  hear 

Such  harmonies  as  he  could  wake, 
And  O,  may  some  faint  accents  reach  his  ear 

From  the  great  City's  heart  that  sorrows  for  his 
sake! 


REPROACH   NOT   DEATH 

REPROACH  not  Death,  nor  charge  to  him,  in  wonder, 
The  lives  that  he  doth  separate  awhile, 

But  think  how  many  hearts  that  ache,  asunder, 
Death  —  pitying  Death  — doth  join  andreconcile  ! 


MARS— 1907 

IN  the  blue,  cloudless  heaven 

A  single  star, 
Lone  torch  and  lamp  of  even, 

Burning  afar ; 

Not  with  the  radiance  tender 

Of  other  stars, 
But  with  insistent  splendor,  — 

Celestial  Mars ! 

Above  the  summits  hoary 

Of  ancient  hills, 
It  yet  pours  out  a  glory 

On  lakes  and  rills, 

As  when  Selene  passes 

Across  the  night 
And  her  fair  image  glasses, 

Leaving  its  light. 

Strange  planet !   Thou  dost  awe  me, 

As  by  a  spell ; 
Thou  dost  uplift  and  draw  me 

Where  thou  dost  dwell ! 


60  MARS— 1907 

Thy  mysteries  to  capture 

Let  others  guess ; 
Mine  —  mine  to  feel  with  rapture 

Thy  beauteousness. 


BESIDE  A  PLEASANT   SHORE 

I  LAY  upon  my  narrow  bed, 

And  dreamed  life's  happy  moments  o'er ; 
I  thought  that  love  my  footsteps  led 

Beside  a  pleasant  shore. 

Care  for  a  moment  loosed  its  grasp, 

And  breathing  deep  the  fragrant  brine,  — 

My  hand  locked  in  my  lover's  clasp,  — 
I  felt  his  pulses  throb  with  mine ; 

And  dear  contentment  seemed  my  right,  — 
There  roaming  from  the  world  apart ; 

I  saw  his  eyes,  I  felt  their  light 

Beam  through  the  shadows,  in  my  heart ; 

And  waves,  and  trees  —  all  nature  —  sang 
A  paeon  by  that  pleasant  shore. 

Then  I  awoke,  and  with  a  pang 

Remembered  that  we  loved  no  more. 


THE   SUN-DIAL 

THEY  that  read  my  message  clear, 
When  the  sun  is  shining  near, 
Know  that  moments  tarry  not 
Though  I  keep  no  record  here. 

Noiseless  as  the  river's  flow, 
Onward  still  the  moments  go ; 
Naught  delays  them  — yet  they  be 
Freighted  for  Eternity ! 

As  the  sand  drops  from  the  glass, 
Unreturning,  so  they  pass  ; 
And  the  Power  that  bids  them  fall 
Knows  their  value  —  each  and  all! 


RETROSPECT 

How  had  it  been,  my  beloved, 
Had  Fate  united  us  sooner,  — 
In  the  bright  days  when  our  hearts 
First  dreamed  of  loving  ?  — 

When  —  a  thrice  exquisite  vision  — 
Hope,  all  her  lute-strings  unbroken, 
Smilingly  beckoned  us  on  — 
Wooed  us  to  follow  ?  — 

When  our  youth,  eager,  expectant,  — 
Trusting  the  north  as  the  south  wind, 
Hardly,  its  pulses  a-throb, 
Staid  life's  unfolding  ? 

Had  I  been  more  to  you,  dearer  — 
Bearing  my  myrtle  and  roses  — 
Than,  as  I  came,  crowned  with  rue, 
Weighted  with  sorrow, 

Seeing  both  light  and  its  shadow, 
Taught  both  of  truth  and  illusion, 
Knowing  earth's  rapture  and  pain,  — 
Sharing  earth's  travail  ? 


64  RETROSPECT 

More  had  I  been  to  you  —  dearer  ?  . 
Deep  in  my  heart  a  voice  answers, 
Healing  the  sense  of  unworth, 
Whispering  comfort :  — 

"  Love  takes  no  counsel  of  prudence  ; 
Wherefore  men,  timid  and  doubting, 
Marvelling  oft  at  his  choice, 
Charge  him  with  blindness  ; 

"  But  —  this  believe  !  —  not  Apollo, 
Clothed  in  his  glory  celestial, 
Bears  such  a  light  in  his  breast 
As  that  which  Eros 

"  Holds  in  the  heart  of  his  darkness, 
Guards  as  a  torch  never  failing, 
Given  to  guide  him  where  waits 
His  sole  desire !  " 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 
1836-1907 

WE  celebrate  with  pomp  and  pride 
A  Cromwell  or  a  Wellington ; 

We  venerate  who,  self-denied, 

Earth's  higher  victories  have  won  ; 

But  through  the  all-remembering  years, 

We  love  who  give  us  smiles  and  tears. 

The  voice  that  charmed  us  may  grow  stills 
The  poet  cease  to  weave  his  spell : 

Ascended  to  the  skyey  hill 

Remote,  where  the  immortals  dwell,— 

Time  to  our  thought  but  more  endears 
Who  gave  us  smiles  and  gave  us  tears. 


THE   PILGRIM 

ONCE  a  man  set  forth  at  morning, 
Journeying  with  eager  footstep, 
Onward  over  fields  new-wakened, 
Where  the  dew  lay  on  the  blossoms, 
Like  to  softly  gleaming  opals. 

All  the  earth,  refreshed  by  slumber, 
In  the  early  light  and  tender 
Wore  a  green,  benignant  beauty ; 
And  his  heart  sang  high  within  him, 
As  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches. 

On  he  sped  with  fond  impatience,  — 
While  the  world  took  on  new  wonder,  — 
Till  he  came  unto  a  river 
Where  there  waiting  stood  an  angel, 
Dark-browed,  but  with  look  celestial. 

Then,  appalled,  the  pilgrim  started  :  — 
"  Death  !  Awaitest  thou  my  coming  — 
Here,  where  least  I  thought  to  meet  thee  ? 
It  is  Love  that  I  am  seeking !  " 

Very  gently  smiled  the  angel, 
Dark-browed,  with  the  look  celestial : 


THE  PILGRIM  67 

"  I  am  Love,  —  thyself  hast  named  me ; 
Yet  them  fearest !  Lo  !  I  leave  thee, 
Till  as  now,  thou  come  to  find  me." 


Once  again  the  man,  at  sunrise, 
Journeyed  forth,  —  his  step  less  buoyant,  — 
Passing  over  fields  new-wakened, 
Where  the  dew  lay  on  the  blossoms 
Like  to  softly  gleaming  opals. 

Once  again  Earth,  fresh  from  slumber, 
In  the  early  light  and  tender 
Wore  her  green  and  mystic  beauty; 
Yet  his  heart  sang  not  within  him 
As  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches. 

Onward  still,  without  impatience, 

Through  a  world  whose  charm   half  pained 

him, 

Journeying,  —  behold  !  —  the  river 
And  the  long-forgotten  angel  — 
Dark-browed,  with  the  look  celestial ! 

As  of  old,  the  pilgrim  started, 
And  his  pale  cheek  flushed  with  anger : 
"  Death,  thy  pledge  !  Thou  hast  betrayed  me! 
Naught  have  I  and  thou  in  common  : 
It  is  Life  that  I  am  seeking ! " 


68  THE  PILGRIM 

With  transfiguring  smile  the  angel, 
Whose  whole  look  now  showed  celestial, 
Answered :  —  "Is  it  Life  thou  seekest ? 
Be  at  rest,  thou  weary  pilgrim  ! 
Seek  no  further :  thou  hast  found  me." 


MOTHER-LOVE 

THINK  not  of  love  as  of  a  debt  — 
Due  or  in  May  or  in  December ! 

Nay,  rather,  for  a  time,  forget ; 
Life  always  helps  us  to  remember ! 

A  child  whom  harmless  toys  beguile 

To  loiter  for  a  little  while, 
Put  heart  into  your  play,  and  then, 

When  you  are  tired  —  come  home  again ! 

Fair,  yet  how  fragile,  pleasure's  rose !  — 
How  vain  the  toil  to  make  it  stronger ! 

It  blooms  —  it  withers,  —  but  love  knows 
A  sweeter  blossom  that  lives  longer ! 


"THE     SENSE    OF    TEARS     IN     MORTAL 
THINGS  " 

WHY  does  great  beauty  waken  in  the  soul, 
Together  with  the  pleasure  it  inspires, 
Sadness  and  inaccessible  desires?  — 

Why,  in  our  joy  anticipating  dole, 

Ask  we  for  lovely  things  a  lasting  goal, 

Though  knowing  well  their  destiny  requires 
That,  wasted  and  consumed  by  their  own  fires, 

They  pay  on  earth,  full  soon,  Death's  heavy  toll  ? 

Nay,  love  !   The  seed  may  fail  within  the  sod, 
But  beauty  fails  not.   Though  it  seem  to  die, 
It  lights  a  quenchless  torch  in  Hades'  portal : 

A  gift  benignant  as  a  smile  of  God, 

Through  myriad  fading  forms  it  mounts  on  high, 
And  at  the  last  creates  beauty  that  is  immortal ! 


AN   AMERICAN   AT  LINCOLN 

THE  vast  cathedral-crown  of  the  high  hill, 

The  long,  low-vaulted  nave,  the  transepts  where 
The  light  is  glory  shed  through  windows  rare 

In  rainbow  tintings  :  glory  deep  and  still, 
Gift  of  a  past  forever  present  there  ! 

Beyond  the  lantern,  the  carved  Gothic  Choir, 
And,  as  interpreting  the  hallowed  place 
Athrob  with  harmonies,  a  boyish  face  — 

English,  yet  with  the  look  of  awed  desire 
Which  speaks  America,  —  the  younger  race. 

In  the  half  parted  lips  without  a  smile, 
In  the  whole  rapt,  impassioned  gaze, 
I  read  the  travail  of  the  distant  days, 

The  wistful  hunger  of  the  Long  Exile  — 

The  yearning  that  survives  through  all  delays : 

I  read  thy  soul,  my  Country !  thou  dear  Land 
Across  the  deep  and  all-dividing  sea ! 
I  read  thy  soul  and  theirs  who  founded  thee 

With  sacrifices  few  could  understand  — 
Renouncing  and  enduring  silently. 


72  AN  AMERICAN  AT  LINCOLN 

And  I  perceived  that  thou  hast  still  retained 
Their  strength  to  toil,  their  courage  to  resist : 
That  seeking  ardently  whate'er  they  missed, 

Thou  hast  remained  —  in  spite  of  all,  remained  — 
That  which  they  made  thee  —  an  idealist ! 

And  once  again  I  felt  how  blest  it  is 
To  hunger  and  to  thirst :  anew  I  saw 
That  by  eternal  high-appointed  law, 

Sublimity  and  beauty  most  are  his 
In  whom  they  move  the  deepest  thrill  of  awe  ! 


AFFINITY 

ALL  are  not  strangers  whom  we  so  misname : 
Man's  free-born  spirit,  which  no  rule  can  tame, 

Careless  of  time,  o'er  vasty  distance  led, 
Still  finds  its  own  where  alien  altars  flame, 

Still  greets  its  own,  amongst  the  deathless  dead ! 


TWO   BROTHERS 

MY  brother's  face  is  turned  from  me ; 
He  sees  a  thing  I  must  not  see,  — 
Alas  !  what  may  the  vision  be  ? 

His  form  is  wasted  as  with  pain ; 

A  fever  feeds  upon  his  brain 

Whose  fire,  extinguished,  burns  again. 

Sometimes  he  seems  to  hear  a  cry,  — 
And  the  ravens  croak  on  the  turrets  nigh, 
And  the  echoes  shudder  as  they  die. 

Sometimes  a  cloud  o'er  his  sight  is  cast, 
And  something  viewless,  whirling  past, 
Is  borne  away  on  the  moaning  blast. 

And  still  his  face  is  turned  from  me, 
To  hide  the  thing  I  must  not  see,  — 
Alas  !  what  may  the  vision  be  ? 


Her  lips  apart,  her  blue  eyes  wide, 

My  mother  lay  in  her  state  and  pride,  — 

The  fairest  thing  that  yet  had  died ! 


TWO  BROTHERS  75 

Like  a  royal  rose,  — the  story  saith,  — 
Peerless  and  pale,  with  a  rose's  breath 
At  her  parted  lips,  she  lay  in  death. 

Her  braids  were  held  by  a  jewelled  dart,  — 
And,  where  her  bodice  fell  apart, 
A  jewelled  dagger  pierced  her  heart. 

To  find  her  foe,  men  strove  in  vain ; 
They  sought  again  and  yet  again,  — 
But    no    one    mourned     with    my    brother's 
pain ; 

For  he  had  loved  her  from  the  hour 
His  father  won  her  with  that  dower 
Of  beauty,  rare  as  an  aloe's  flower  ; 

And  she  loved  him  till  our  father  died  ; 
Then  something  —  was  it  grief  or  pride  ?  — 
Made  her  as  marble  at  his  side. 

They  say  —  the  vassals  of  our  race  — 

She  wore  thenceforth  a  wintry  grace, 

Like  the  frozen  scorn  on  her  fair  dead  face ; 

And  though  my  brother  strove  at  morn 

And  eve  to  comfort  her,  forlorn, 

She  met  him  still  with  that  cruel  scorn. 


76  TWO  BROTHERS 

0  poor,  my  Mother  !    Soon,  they  say, 
She  hid  herself  with  her  child  away, 
And  looked  no  longer  on  the  day ; 

But  sometimes,  when  our  towers  were 

white,  — 

Bathed  in  the  moon's  celestial  light,  — 
Her  casement  opened  on  the  night 

All  tremulous  with  mystery, 
And,  motionless,  without  a  sigh, 
She  stood  there,  gazing  on  the  sky ; 

And  they  who  saw  her  then,  declare 
There  was  nor  pride  nor  passion  there,  — 
Only  a  tearless,  mute  despair. 

1  knew  her  not,  —  or  if  I  knew, 
Forgot  her  quickly,  as  children  do,  — 
Alas  !  as  little  children  do  ; 

But  when  she  died,  men  say  that  I 

So  plaintive  wailed  in  the  chamber  nigh, 

That  summoned  thither  by  the  cry, 

They  brought  my  brother  ;  who,  that  hour, 
Bore  me  away  to  this  lonely  tower  — 
This  fortress  of  our  ancient  power, 


TWO  BROTHERS  77 

Where  ever  near  me,  night  and  day,  — 
And  happiest  with  me  to  stay,  — 
He  kept  the  vexing  world  away.  .  .  . 

Ah,  then,  he  did  not  seem  to  see 
The  haunting  thing  so  constantly  !  — 
Dear  God  !  what  may  the  riddle  be  ? 


Mother  !  I  scarce  have  grieved  for  you,  — 
So  close  to  me  my  brother  drew  — 
So  gave  me  all  the  joys  I  knew,  — 

But  I  am  frightened  now,  and  cry, 
Stretching  my  arms  out  to  the  sky. 
Without  my  brother's  love,  I  die  ! 

And  though  I  do  not  understand 
Where  lies  yon  far  fair  Heavenly  Land, 
I  think  that  soon,  hand  locked  in  hand, 

We  two  will  find  you  where  you  dwell  — 
Will  see  the  face  he  loved  so  well, 
And,  weeping,  all  our  sorrows  tell. 

And  then,  I  know,  through  me  beguiled, 
You  '11  smile  on  him,  —  as  once  you  smiled, 
Who  was  so  good  to  your  lonely  child ! 


CONFLICT  AND   REST 

THROUGH  the  long  voyage  we  may  welcome  day, 

Glad  when  the  night  is  gone, 
So  many  threat'ning  perils  of  the  way 

Vanish  before  the  dawn  ; 

And  yet  a  deeper  darkness  we  may  crave 

When  strife  indeed  is  past, 
And  we  from  stress  of  tempest  and  of  wave 

Are  nearing  port  at  last. 


CHILD-FANCIES 


ASPHODEL 

THE  children  played  at  naming,  every  one 
Her  favorite  blossom,  in  the  mild  June  even ; 

When,  at  the  last,  the  others  having  done, 

A  little  maid  —  her  years  but  numbered  seven  — 

Stood  shyly  forth  and  answered  in  her  turn : 
"  Pale  violets  I  love,  —  and  love  full  well 

Red  poppies,  which  the  elves  for  torches  burn,  — 
But  for  my  own  I  choose  —  the  asphodel." 

Indignant  stared  the  children  ;  then  they  cried  — 
Amid  their  pastime  ready  still  for  strife  — 

"  The  asphodel !  You  only  choose  through  pride 
A  flower  you  never  saw  in  all  your  life !  " 

Abashed,  the  culprit  hung  her  pretty  head, 
As  she  accused  of  a  crime  had  been  ; 

Then,  bravely,  with  conviction  sweet  she  said :  — 
"  But  I  love  best  the  flower  I  have  not  seen !  " 

Ah,  wistful  child !   Such  lonely  dreams  as  thine 
Others  have  cherished  in  their  hearts,  I  ween,  — 


8o  CHILD-FANCIES 

And,  grateful  for  all  good,  with  thee  incline 
To  love  the  best  the  flower  they  have  not  seen ! 

ii 

• 

GATHERED   WILD-FLOWERS 

I  'VE  brought  you  some  flowers,  mother! 

Please  look  at  them,  mother,  look ! 
See  this  one !   -  and  here  's  another 

I  found  beside  the  brook ! 

They  're  very  warm,  for  I  held  them  tight ; 

You  '11  want  them,  I  know,  to  keep, 
When  they  wake  again  and  you  see  them  right,  — 

But  now  they  're  all  asleep. 


DEARTH 

As  one  who  faring  o'er  a  desert  plain 
Sees  fountains  clear  in  the  mirage  arise, 

And,  parched,  longs  the  nectar  sweet  to  gain 
Which  still  before  him  flies  — 

So,  wistfully,  half  doubting,  half-believing, 

Scornful  of  hope  — yet  hopeful,  self-deceiving, 
I  thirst  for  love,  which  wastes  before  my  eyes. 


MID-OCEAN 

A  WASTE  of  heaving  waters  to  the  far  horizon's  rim, 

And  over  them  a  vault  of  leaden  gray ; 
No  warmer  tint  or  shading  to  relieve  the  aspect 

dim, 

Save  where  the  riven  billows  break  away, 
Revealing  as  we  part  them  to  the  left  hand  and 

the  right, 

Beneath  each  curling  crest  of  foam,  the  marvellous 
green  light. 

Here  midst  the  heaving  billows  —  this  unending 

stretch  of  sea 
Where  scarce  an  ocean-bird  has  strength  to  fly, 

Unnumbered  leagues  from  any  strand  where  habi 
tations  be, 
Alone,  no  comrade  vessel  sailing  nigh, 

The  deep,  unplumbed,  beneath  us,  and,  above,  a 
frowning  dome,  — 

I  do  but  turn  my  eyes  on  thee,  and  straightway  it 
is  home ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LADY  CURZON 

JULY  17,    1906 

INTO  the  light  where  beauty  doth  not  pale, 
Into  the  glory  that  can  never  fail, 

Beyond  our  yearning  care,  she  passed  from  view. 
Two   nations    loved   and   claimed   her,  —  English 

flower,  — 

One  gave  her  birth,  one  gave  a  regal  dower, 
But  both  —  ah,  both  forgot  how  Heaven  must  love 

her  too ! 


BEREFT 

DEATH  took  away  from  me  my  heart's  desire,  — 
Full  suddenly,  without  a  word  of  warning; 

Froze  with  benumbing  touch  her  body's  fire, 
And  darkened  her  young  morning. 

Death  hid  her  then  where  she  is  safe,  men  say,  — 
Imprisoned  in  a  deep-digged  grave  and  hollow, 

Where  grief  and  pain  may  never  find  a  way, 
Nor  any  torment  follow. 

Safe  !  —  and  because  of  fear,  they  deem  't  was  best 
For  her,  perchance,  —  this  thing  which  they  call 
dying, 

But  cold  she  could  not  be  against  my  breast 
As  there  where  she  is  lying  ! 

Sometimes  I  dream,  with  sudden,  wild  delight, 
That  she  escapes  the  cruel  bonds  that  bind  her, 

And  fond  I  seek  through  all  the  throbbing  night, 
But  never,  never  find  her ! 

Sometimes —  But  have  the  dead  then  no  regrets  ?  — 
Ah,  me !   I  think,  though  she  hath  so  bereft  me, 

My  loved  one  cannot  be  where  she  forgets 
How  lonely  she  hath  left  me ! 


THE  MARTYR  JEWS 

THEIR  fathers  wronged  thee,  Master,  long  ago  : 
Rejected  thee,  because  they  knew  thee  not 

Whom  it  had  been  their  highest  peace  to  know, 
And  nobler  dreams  forgot, 

Preferred  a  kingdom  of  this  world  to  thee, 

And  saw  thee  sacrificed  upon  a  tree. 

Vet  thou  in  death  —  even  in  death,  didst  pray :  — 
"  Father,  forgive !  They  know  not  what  they  do  !  " 

But  what  of  those,  more  culpable  than  they  — 
Oh,  more  than  they,  untrue, 

Who,  in  thy  name,  dear  Christ !  have  tortured  men, 

And  crucified  thee  countless  times  since  then  ? 


LE   GRAND    SALUT 

"  Major  Dreyfus,  in  the  name  of  the  Republic  and  of  the  people  of  France, 
I  proclaim  you  a  knight  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  " 

THERE  is  a  power  in  innocence,  a  might 

Which,  clothed  in  weakness,  makes  injustice  vain : 
A  strength,  o'ertopping  reason  to  explain, 

Which  bears  it  —  though  deep-buried  out  of  sight  — 

Slowly  and  surely  upward  to  the  light : 
A  conscious  certainty  amidst  its  pain 
That,  robbed  of  all  things,  it  shall  all  regain, 

Through  that  eternal  law  which  guards  the  right. 

O  Dreyfus !  Thy  dear  country  has  restored 
More  than  thine  honour  in  her  hour  supreme. 

Noble,  indeed,  though  able  so  to  err, 
God  spared  thee  to  her  that  she  might  redeem 
Herself,  and  hand  thee  back  thy  blameless  sword. 
Listen  !  the  world  salutes  —  not  only  thee,  but 
her! 


INHERITOR 

SAY  not  the  gods  are  cruel, 

Since  man  himself  is  kind  — 
Man,  who  could  give  no  tenderness 

If,  impotent  and  blind, 
He  stretched  appealing  hands  on  high 

No  tenderness  to  find,  — 

Who,  wakened  to  compassion, 

No  longer  stands  apart, 
Careless  of  others'  suffering, 

But,  rather,  shares  the  smart, 
Because  of  pity  drawn  from  out 

The  Universal  Heart,  — 

Who  feels  within  him  glowing 

A  spark  that  dares  aspire, 
Flame-like,  unto  supernal  things, 

With  never-quenched  desire, 
And  knows  that  Heaven  bestowed  on  him 

A  spark  of  its  own  fire ! 


WHEN   YOU   CAME 

DEAR,  when  you  came  the  day  was  bright ; 

The  moments,  roseate  to  my  sight, 
Flew  by  me,  and  my  heart  was  glad 
Without  you ;  but  I  loved  you,  lad  — 

Loved  in  my  own  despite ! 

As  morn,  I  thought,  so  would  be  night, 
Nor  feared  eclipsing  cloud,  nor  blight  — 
Nay,  fancied  naught  to  life  could  add, 
Dear,  when  you  came  ! 

And  now —  the  good  I  deemed  my  right  — 
But  you  with  love  will  still  requite 

The  follies  that  have  made  you  sad  ! 

You  smile  —  there  —  whisper !  Nothing  had 
Illumined  for  me  love's  altar-light, 
Dear,  when  you  came  ! 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

SHE  leaned  above  the  river's  sedgy  brink  — 
The  little  wife  —  half-minded  there  to  drink 
Forgetfulness  of  all  the  grief  and  pride 
That  overwhelmed  her  spirit  like  a  tide. 

She  had  so  blindly  trusted !    Yet  doubt  gre^w — 
Whence  it  had  sprung,  alas  !  she  hardly  knew,  — 
A  hydra-headed  monster  that  devoured 
Her  happiness  ere  fully  it  had  flowered. 

He  who  had  been  her  truth  !  —  could  he  betray  ? 
"  Ah,  let  me  die,"  she  cried,  "  or  quickly  stay, 
Thou  who  bestowed,  unasked,  this  gift  of  breath, 
Imaginings  more  terrible  than  death !  " 

Lone  and  forespent,  she  leaned  her  heavily 
Against  a  willow  ;  when  she  seemed  to  see  — 
Doubting  if  that  indeed  she  saw  or  dreamed, 
So  full  of  mystery  the  vision  seemed  — 

A  form  unknown,  ineffable  in  grace, 
With  look  compassionate  bent  on  her  face. 
"  Thy  tears  have  moved  the  Heart  Omnipotent, 
Wherefore  I  come,  to  thee  in  pity  sent,  —  " 
89 


90  THE  YOUNG  WIFE 

So,  as  she  thought,  the  wondrous  vision  spake,  — 
"  To  serve  thee,  if  I  may,  e'en  though  I  make 
Confession,  grievous  unto  me,  who  know 
My  folly  was  forgiven  long  ago.  .  .  . 

"  A  youth  was  I  who  fondly  pleasure  sought, 
Careless  to  ask  how  dearly  it  was  bought ; 
Who  passed  my  days  in  idleness,  nor  guessed 
How  close  the  coils  of  evil  round  me  pressed, 

"Till,  like  some  swimmer  boastful  of  his  strength 
Who  dares  too  far,  I  faced  the  truth  at  length  — 
Perceived  the  awful  distance  I  had  come, 
And,  battling  back,  despaired  of  reaching  home. 

"  Then  I  had  perished  in  my  utter  need, 
Had  no  one  trusted  me  beyond  my  meed ; 
But  —  I  reached  port  at  last,  my  fate  withstood, 
Because  one  woman  still  believed  me  good." 

Softly  the  vision  faded,  and  was  gone. 
The  young  wife  by  the  river  stood  alone  ; 
Musing,  she  lingered  there  a  little  while, 
And  to  her  pensive  lips  there  came  a  smile. 


LOVE   NEVER  IS   TOO   LATE 

LOVE  never  is  too  late  ;  it  sums, 

Within  itself,  all  that  is  lasting  gain, 

And,  or  at  morn  or  midnight,  comes 
With  blessings  in  its  train. 

We  tarry,  slow  to  give,  alas  ! 

But  though  delayed,  love  never  is  too  late 
Love  that  has  power  beyond  the  grave  to  pass 

And  enter  Heaven's  gate  ! 


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  ANDES 

FAR,  far  the  mountain-peak  from  me 
Where  lone  he  stands,  with  look  caressing ; 
Yet  from  the  valley,  wistfully 
I  lift  my  dreaming  eyes,  and  see 
His  hand  stretched  forth  in  blessing. 

Never  bird  sings  nor  blossom  blows 
Upon  that  summit  chill  and  breathless, 

Where  throned  he  waits  amid  the  snows  ; 

But  from  his  presence  wide  outflows 
Love  that  is  warm  and  deathless  ! 

O  Symbol  of  the  great  release 
From  war  and  strife  !  —  unfailing  fountain 
To  which  we  turn  for  joy's  increase, 
Fain  would  we  climb  to  heights  of  Peace  - 
Thy  peace  upon  the  mountain  ! 


EARTH'S   BLOSSOMS 

EARTH  has  her  blossoms,  and  the  sea  his  shells 
Wrought  with  as  fine  a  workmanship,  and  fair 
As  they  had  been  some  god's  peculiar  care ; 

And  in  the  heart  of  each  a  spirit  dwells 

Whose  voice,  in  flowers,  —  for  they  to  earth  be 
long— 

Is  but  a  perfume,  evanescent,  sweet, 
While  in  the  sea-born  shell,  as  seemeth  meet, 

It  is  an  echo  faint  of  an  unending  song  ! 


ECHO   CONSOLATRIX 

I  SAID,  "  She  is  gone  from  the  grieving  earth  — 
The  Maiden,  —  Spring  ;  in  the  realms  of  Dis 
She  reigns  o'er  a  world  of  tears  and  dearth, 

With  a  homesick  heart  that  yearns  for  this  : 
Frozen  the  meadows,  the  fields  lie  bare, 
And  afar,  'mid  the  fragrant  dusk  of  her  hair, 
The  violets  dream  of  the  light,  in  vain. 
She  is  gone  !  —  ah,  will  she  return  again  ?  " 
A  voice  breathed  low,  "  Again." 

I  said,  "  In  this  joyless  heart  of  me 

Is  a  winter  chill  and  comfortless  : 
I  tire  of  the  wail  of  the  wind-swept  sea, 

My  soul  is  afraid  of  its  loneliness. 
Is  there  a  land,  as  poets  tell, 
Where  beauty  and  love  —  as  the  asphodel 
Unchanging  —  inhale  an  immortal  air  ? 
And  my  little  lad  ?  —  shall  I  find  him  there?  " 
The  voice  made  answer  :  "  There  !  " 


JOHN   HAY 

AMID  ferns  and  mosses  brown, 
From  the  little  mountain-town, 

Through  the  driving  rain  they  bore  him, 
Kearsarge  frowning  down  : 

Onward  bore  him,  wrapped  from  sight 
Under  palms  and  blossoms  white,  — 

While  the  grieving  hearts  of  thousands 
Followed  through  the  night 

To  that  grave,  love-sanctified, 
Where,  in  the  full  summer-tide, 

Low  they  laid  him,  who  had  cherished 
Sympathies  world-wide. 

Honored  grave  !   Yet  Azrael's  dart 
Only  slays  the  mortal  part, 

And  they  die  not  who  have  written 
On  the  human  heart. 

Sad  Roumania,  far  Peking, 

East  with  West,  his  praise  to  sing 

Who  deemed  justice  more  than  power, 
Hither  tribute  bring ; 


96  JOHN  HAY 

And  the  mother-land  who  bore  — 
She  whom  most  he  labored  for  — 

Bows  her  head  in  sorrow,  knowing 
He  returns  no  more. 

Fame  has  crowned  her  own  again, 
Writing  with  illumined  pen,  — 

Lincoln's  friend,  who  loved  and  truly 
Served  his  fellow-men. 


PRIVILEGE 

BLEST  is  the  right  to  share 

The  grief  of  hearts  forlorn,  — 
With  other  men  to  bear 

What  must  by  men  be  borne ; 

For  night  bestows  dawn's  orient  rose 

And  glories  of  the  morn  ; 

And  as  its  shadow-wing 

Lends  to  the  sunlight  worth, 
So  out  of  suffering 

Arise  the  joys  of  earth  — 
The  good  and  ill,  united  still 

And  offspring  of  one  birth. 

Great  is  the  gift  of  life 

To  him  who  lives  indeed, 
A  partner  in  the  strife, 

The  toil,  the  pain,  that  speed  — 

Like  hidden  rills  veined  through  the  hills 

Life's  ocean-deeps  to  feed ! 


DAI   NIPPON 

APART  from  all, 

"Child  of  the  World's  old  age," 
Heedful  of  naught  beyond  the  billowy  wall 

That  closely  girt  her  island  hermitage, 
She  pondered  still,  with  half-averted  look, 
The  early  lessons  of  the  great  World-book, 

Nor  cared  to  turn  the  page, 

For  a  strange  dread 

Possessed  her.   To  invoke 
Aid  of  her  gods  she  tried,  —  scarce  comforted 

That  countless  barrier-waves  about  her  broke  ; 
But  when,  with  bold  command,  in  Yeddo  bay 
A  squadron  anchored,  —  oh,  prodigious  day !  — 

The  Orient  awoke ! 

Though  one  long  blind, 

At  first  in  fruitless  quest 
Must  grope  her  course,  yet,  with  enlarging  mind, 

She  quickly  clearer  saw ;  and  from  her  breast 
Sent  forth    brave   sons  —  of    her    new   hunger 
taught  — 

Who,  one  by  one  returning,  to  her  brought 
The  wisdom  of  the  West. 


DAI  NIPPON  99 

Then  earth  beheld, 

With  awe  and  wonderment, 
Goliath  by  this  stripling  nation  felled, 

Which  —  rising  by  no  tedious  ascent  — 
Swift  as  the  upward  flight  of  wind-swept  flame, 
Leapt  from  obscurity  to  dazzling  fame,  — 

Star  of  the  Orient ! 

And  yet  she  won 

Sublimer  victories, 
Who,  high  enlightened  all  excess  to  shun, 

Did  not  exact  remorseless  penalties, 
Nor  force  a  brave  and  fallen  foe  to  drain 
Humiliation's  brimming  cup  of  pain 

Down  to  the  poisoned  lees. 

In  lieu  of  things 

Ephemeral  —  less  worth, 
She   full-revealed    the    sweep    of    her    strong 

wings, 
And    gained    the   suffrage   of    the    grateful 

earth ; 

Choosing,  as  war  should  from  her  realms  de 
part, 

To  give  herself  to  the  enduring  Art 
That  was  her  own  at  birth. 

Ah,  great  Japan,  — 

Who,  staying  griefs  appalling, 


loo  DAI   NIPPON 

Approved  thyself  magnanimous  to  man,  — 

The  World,  that  long  had  felt  thy  charm  en 
thralling, 

Has  laid  full  many  laurels  on  thy  brow ; 

But  with  a  new,  diviner  accent  now 
She  hears  the  East  a-calling  ! 


A  LITTLE   SONG 

ROSES  are  but  for  a  day, 
Amaranths  endure  forever ; 

Joys  there  be  that  fade  away, 
Dreams  that  perish  never ; 

But,  whate'er  the  future's  holding,  • 
Crown  of  all,  all  else  enfolding,  • 
Love  lives  on ! 

Well  they  know,  who  with  content 
Hear  his  oft-repeated  story, 

How  to  earthly  glooms  are  lent 
Reflexes  of  glory ! 

Rapture's  first  and  final  giver, 

Star  of  Charon's  rayless  river,  — 
Love  lives  on ! 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 

I  SEEMED  to  see  thy  spirit  leave  the  clay 
That  was  its  mortal-tenement  of  late ; 
I  seemed  to  see  it  falter  at  the  gate 

Of  the  New  Life,  as  seeking  to  obey 

Some  inner  law,  yet  doubtful  of  the  way 
Provided  for  its  passage,  by  that  fate 
Which  makes  birth  pain,  and  gives  to  death  such 
state 

And  dignity,  when  soul  withdraws  its  sway. 

A  tremor  of  the  pale  and  noble  brow, 

A  tightening  of  the  lips,  and  thou  wast  gone  — 

Gone  whither  ?    Ah,  the  hush  of  death's  abyss  ! 

All  tenantless  thy  beauteous  form  lay  now 
As  the  cicada's  fragile  shell  outgrown, 

Or  as  the  long-forsaken,  lonely  chrysalis. 


KINDRED 

TENDER  grass  in  April  springing, 

Scent  of  lilacs  wet  with  rain, 
Bluebird  jubilantly  singing 

Snatches  of  a  loved  refrain, 

Falcon  soaring  high  above  me, 
Light  of  stars  in  deeps  divine, 

Creeping  earth-bound  things  that  move  me 
To  compassion,  ye  are  mine ! 

Wind  in  varied  cadence  playing 
Mystic  runes  on  harps  unseen, 

Blossom  hardily  delaying 
Where  lost  summer  late  hath  been, 

Shadow  drifting  o'er  the  mountain, 
Mist  blown  inward  from  the  sea, 

Hidden  spring  and  bubbling  fountain,  — 
Ye  are  mine  and  parts  of  me ! 

What  am  I  ?   The  stars  have  made  me, 
And  the  dust  to  which  I  cleave, 

Rivers,  and  the  hills  that  aid  me, 
Past  and  future,  morn  and  eve, 


104  KINDRED 

Nightshade  lightly  plucked  unknowing, 
Roses  fondly  twined  with  rue, 

Harvestings  of  mine  own  sowing, 
And  from  fields  I  never  knew. 

I  have  gained  'mid  loss  and  capture 
Strength  not  found  in  vanquishing, 

Sharing  oft  the  mounting  rapture, 
Trailing  oft  the  broken  wing ; 

Kindred  with  the  sunlight  streaming 
Where  nor  dew  nor  rain-drop  gleams, 

With  the  parched  desert  dreaming 
Incommunicable  dreams, 

Laid  in  cavern-bed  at  even, 

Throned  on  rose-flushed  Apennine,  — 
Multitudinous  earth  and  heaven, 

Naught  ye  hold  that  is  not  mine  ! 


COURAGE 

'T  is  the  front  toward  life  that  matters  most  • 

The  tone,  the  point  of  view, 
The  constancy  that  in  defeat 

Remains  untouched  and  true ; 

For  death  in  patriot  fight  may  be 

Less  gallant  than  a  smile, 
And  high  endeavor,  to  the  gods, 

Seems  in  itself  worth  while ! 


CRUEL  LOVE— ANACREONTIC 

I  LOOKED  from  out  my  window  once 
And  saw  Love  standing  there  ; 

No  cloak  had  he  to  cover  him, 
His  dimpled  feet  were  bare, 

And  fast  and  chill  the  snowflakes  fell 
On  his  ambrosial  hair. 

He  lifted  up  to  mine  a  face 

Filled  with  celestial  light ; 
Fond,  fond  with  pity  grew  my  heart 

To  see  his  hapless  plight, 
And  down  I  sped  to  offer  him 

Warm  shelter  for  the  night :  — 

"Come  in,  come  in,  thou  tender  child, 
A  wanderer  from  thine  own  ! 

Hath  all  the  world  abandoned  thee, 
That  thou  art  thus  alone  ? 

Come  in,  come  in  !  that  I  straightway 
For  others  may  atone  !  " 

I  took  his  icy  hand  in  mine,  — 
Why  swifter  throbbed  each  vein  ? 


•  CRUEL  LOVE  107 

Was  it  the  impulse  of  my  blood 

To  ease  his  frozen  pain  ?  — 
Yet  still  his  lips  refused  to  smile, 

Still  fell  his  tears  like  rain. 

Bashful  he  seemed,  as  half  inclined 

To  shiver  there  apart : 
I  led  him  closer  to  the  fire, 

I  drew  him  to  my  heart : 
Ah,  cruel  Love  !  my  trustful  breast 

He  wounded  with  a  dart ! 

Ah,  cruel  Love  !    He  smiled  at  last  — 

A  wondrous  smile  to  see ! 
And  passing  from  my  sheltering  door, 

With  step  alert  and  free, 
He  took  my  warmth,  my  joy  with  him,  — 

His  tears  he  left  to  me ! 


"EACH   AND   ALL" 

I  SAW  a  soul  contended  for 

By  Evil  and  by  Good  ; 
And  watching  with  solicitude  — 

As  if  my  yearning  could 
Some  succor  bring  —  I  trembled 

Whiles  the  tempter  was  withstood. 

Yet,  soul  —  my  soul,  what  meant  the  strife 

To  thee  ?  —  what  power  had 
Another's  wrong  to  make  thee  feel 

Thyself  so  wronged  and  sad  ? 
And  when  at  last  Good  overcame,  — 

O  why  wast  tJwu  so  glad  ? 


SAINT  THERESA 

WEARY  and  long  the  winding  way ; 

Yet  as  I  fare,  to  comfort  me, 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  tell  the  beads 

Of  love's  perfected  rosary. 

The  fire  that  once  hath  pierced  the  heart, 
If  from  above,  must  upward  flame, 

Nor  falter  till  it  find  at  last 

The  burning  fountain  whence  it  came. 

O  fire  of  love  within  my  breast  — 
O  pain  that  pleads  for  no  surcease  — 

Fill  me  with  fervor !  —  more  and  more, 
Give  me  thy  passion  and  thy  peace  ! 

O  love,  that  mounts  to  paths  of  day 

Untraversed  by  the  soaring  lark, 
O  love,  through  all  the  silent  night 

A  lamp  to  light  the  boundless  dark, 

O  love,  whose  dearest  pangs  I  bear, 

This  heart — this  wounded  heart — transform  ! 

That  all  who  seek  its  shelter  may 
There  find  a  refuge  safe  and  warm. 


no  SAINT  THERESA 

Were  there  no  heaven  of  high  reward, 
Man's  service  here  to  crown  and  bless, 

Were  there  no  hell,  —  I,  for  love's  sake, 
Would  toil  with  ardent  willingness. 

And  if —  O  Thou  that  pitiest 

The  fallen,  lone,  and  tempest-tost !  — 
If,  Love  Divine,  Thou  wilt  but  save 

Whom  /do  love,  none  shall  be  lost! 


IN    MEMORY    OF     CAROLINE    FURNESS 
JAYNE 

COULD'ST  thou  —  thou,  also,  die,  whom  life  so 
cherished  ? 

Could'st  thou  go  from  us,  in  thy  beauteous  June, 
Leaving  a  sense  of  joy  untimely  perished, 

Of  music  stilled  too  soon  ? 

We  had  not  dreamed,  fair  child,  that  thou  before  us 
Should'st  find  the  meadows  of  the  asphodel  — 

Should'st  hear,  ere  we, "  the  high  imagined  chorus," — 
But,  ah,  for  thee,  't  is  well ! 

Not  thine  to  creep  reluctant  to  death's  portal : 
Thy  spirit  from  the  mirk  of  transient  things 

Rose  radiant  to  the  light  of  the  immortal, 
With  eager,  outstretched  wings ! 

For  the  grave  gods,  bestowing  every  blessing 
Upon  a  child  of  Earth,  ere  grief  should  come, 

Crowned  thee,  in  youth,  with  the  mild  touch  caress 
ing 
That  calls  their  loved  ones  home ! 


AFTER 

AFTER  the  darkness,  dawning, 
And  stir  of  the  rested  wing ; 

Fresh  fragrance  from  the  meadow, 
Fresh  hope  in  everything  ! 

After  the  winter,  springtime 

And  dreams,  that  flower-like  throng 
After  the  tempest,  silence  ; 

After  the  silence,  song. 

After  the  heat  of  anger, 
Love,  that  all  life  enwraps ; 

After  the  stress  of  battle, 

The  trumpet  sounding  "  taps." 

After  despair  and  doubting, 

A  faith  without  alloy, 
God  here  and  over  yonder,  — 

The  end  of  all  things  —  joy  ! 


THE   VIOLIN 

HE  gave  me  all,  and  then  he  laid  me  by. 

Straining  my  strings  to  breaking,  with  his  pain, 
He  voiced  an  anguish,  through  my  wailing  cry, 

Never  to  speak  again. 

He  pressed  his  cheek  against  me,  and  he  wept  — 
Had  we  been  glad  together  over  much  ?  — 

Emotions  that  within  me  deep  had  slept 
Grew  vibrant  at  his  touch, 

And  I,  who  could  not  ask  whence  sprung  his  sorrow 
Responsive  to  a  grief  I  might  not  know, 

Sobbed  as  the  infant  that  each  mood  doth  borrow 
Sobs  for  the  mother's  woe. 

Wild  grew  my  voice  and  stormy,  with  his  passion, 

Lifted  at  last  unto  a  tragic  might ; 
Then  swift  it  changed,  in  sad  and  subtile  fashion, 

To  pathos  infinite, 

Swooning  away  beneath  his  faltering  fingers 

Till  the  grieved  plaints  seemed,  echoless,  to  die ; 

When,  calm,  he  rose,  and  with  a  touch  that  lingers, 
Laid  me  forever  by. 


114  THE  VIOLIN 

Forever  !  Ah,  he  comes  no  more  —  my  lover  ! 

And  all  my  spirit  wrapped  in  trance-like  sleep, 
Darkling  I  dream  that  such  a  night  doth  cover 

His  grief  with  hush  as  deep. 


PER  ASPERA 

THANK  God,  a  man  can  grow  ! 

He  is  not  bound 

With  earthward  gaze  to  creep  along  the  ground 
Though  his  beginnings  be  but  poor  and  low, 
Thank  God,  a  man  can  grow  ! 
The  fire  upon  his  altars  may  burn  dim, 

The  torch  he  lighted  may  in  darkness  fail, 
And  nothing  to  rekindle  it  avail,  — 
Yet  high  beyond  his  dull  horizon's  rim, 
Arcturus  and  the  Pleiads  beckon  him. 


THE   HERMIT 

LISTEN  !   O  listen  !   'T  is  the  thrush  —  God  bless 
him ! 

How  marvellously  sweet  the  song  he  sings  ! 
All  Nature  seems  to  listen  and  caress  him, 

And  Silence  even  closer  folds  her  wings 
Lest  she  should  miss  one  faintly  throbbing  note 
Of  high-wrought  rapture,  from  that  flutelike  throat. 

The  warbling  world,  itself,  is  hushed  about  him  ; 

No  bird  essays  the  amoebean  strain : 
Each  knows  the  soul  of  Music  —  full  without  him  — 

Could  bear  no  more,  and  rivalry  were  vain. 
So,  Daphnis  singing  in  the  tamarisk  shade, 
All  things  grew  silent,  of  a  sound  afraid. 

The  aspens  by  the  lake  have  ceased  to  shiver, 
As  if  the  very  zephyrs  held  their  breath  : 

Hearken  how,  wave  on  wave,  with  notes  that  quiver, 
It  rises  now  —  that  song  of  life  and  death  !  — 

"  O  holy  !  holy !  "   Was  it  Heaven  that  called 

My  spirit,  by  love's  ecstasy  enthralled  ? 


THANKSGIVING 

Now  gracious  plenty  rules  the  board, 

And  in  the  purse  is  gold  ; 
By  multitudes  in  glad  accord 

Thy  giving  is  extolled. 
Ah,  suffer  me  to  thank  Thee,  Lord, 

For  what  thou  dost  withhold ! 

I  thank  Thee  that  howe'er  we  climb 
There  yet  is  something  higher ; 

That  though  through  all  our  reach  of  time 
We  to  the  stars  aspire, 

Still,  still  beyond  us  burns  sublime 
The  pure  sidereal  fire  ! 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  unexplained, 

The  hope  that  lies  before, 
The  victory  that  is  not  gained,  — 

O  Father,  more  and  more 
I  thank  Thee  for  the  unattained, 

The  good  we  hunger  for  ! 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  voice  that  sings 

To  inner  depths  of  being  ; 
For  all  the  spread  and  sweep  of  wings, 

From  earthly  bondage  freeing ; 
For  mystery  —  the  dream  of  things 

Beyond  our  power  of  seeing ! 


POETRY 

CONTEMPLATIVE  and  fair,  with  look  divine, 
Her  wistful  vision  fixed  on  the  unseen,  — 
The  future  hers,  as  the  long  past  has  been,  — 

She  waits  apart.    Who  disregard  her  shrine, 

Who  pour  to  her  libations  of  red  wine, 

Who  heal  their  griefs  at  her  loved  Hippocrene, 
She  noteth  not,  —  enwrapt  in  thought  serene, 

And  pondering  grave  meanings,  line  by  line. 

She  has  envisaged  the  veiled  heart  of  things  — 
Has  passed  through  Purgatory,  and  her  way, 
Darkling,   unravelled    through   the   deeps   of 

Hell; 

And  thence  arising  where  the  blessed  dwell, 
Has  touched  the  stars  with  her  aspiring  wings, 
And  knows  that  she  is  deathless  as  are  they ! 


(C&e  fiiberjiibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S    .   A 


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